


the properties of dihydrogen monoxide

by StormySkiesAhead



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Avatar & Benders Setting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avatar Bran, Don't copy to another site, Earthbender Gendry, Earthbender Mya, Earthbender Shireen, F/F, Firebender Aegon, Firebender Original Character, Full Moon Ex Machina, Lysa says women's rights, Other, R Plus L Equals J, Shireen Lives, Show Ages, Trans Character, Waterbender Arya, Waterbender Sansa, all i ask are that those lady-identifying are treated well, and ASOIAF will not give that to me so I will do it myself, asoiaf had no technological innovation... until the fire nation attacked, fake aegon - Freeform, i am a soft sapphic, i bounce between POV's so much it's not even funny, i have one plot-relevant pov character and I think that's very reserved of me, i just want the best for the ladies and really who wouldn't, mild violence bc i don't like writing it but it's asoiaf people, started as a shitpost and now we're here, the unholy offspring of show and book canon itself, transphobia and homophobia do not exist in the north and in essos bc i said so, well everyone but it feels like more of an effort here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2020-10-19 08:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 67,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20654000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormySkiesAhead/pseuds/StormySkiesAhead
Summary: Sansa Stark (Always Sansa Stark, she tells herself in the depths of the night, no matter what they do to her) knows nothing of herself. She knows not why the loss of Lady aches deeper than the loss of any other beloved pet. She knows not why she dreams, sometimes, of slipping into the sky or deep below the waves of Blackwater Bay.She certainly does not know why, when her new handmaiden accidentally knocks a pitcher of water off the table while they’re sitting in her room, the water that was once in the pitcher (which now clatters on the ground) pulls itself into a little ball instead of splattering onto the floor.-Bending is a rare enough gift that most would not know or care enough to check for it. Sansa Stark is a waterbender of the North. This, along with the firebender that tags along behind her, changes- well, not everything, but a great deal many things nonetheless.





	1. herald

Sansa Stark (Always Sansa Stark, she tells herself in the depths of the night, no matter what they do to her) knows nothing of herself. She knows not why the loss of Lady aches deeper than the loss of any other beloved pet. She knows not why she dreams, sometimes, of slipping into the sky or deep below the waves of Blackwater Bay.

She certainly does not know why, when her new handmaiden accidentally knocks a pitcher of water off the table while they’re sitting in her room, the water that was once in the pitcher (which now clatters on the ground) pulls itself into a little ball instead of splattering onto the floor. It’s not a surprise, however. Water’s always been strange around her, after all, and though she hasn’t been able to practice here, she’d gotten quite good with it back home. Before the new handmaiden- Shae, her name is- turns and sees, Sansa lets the water fall to the floor.

A guard- one of Cersei’s spies, Sansa knows, for why else would they let a Northerner, bastard or not, be so close to a Princess of the North- steps into the doorway, a concerned look below his funny-looking helmet.

Kieran Snow is nice enough, for a spy. Sansa gets the idea that he might just genuinely care, but he is still a spy, and she won’t trust a spy.

She turns back to Shae, who apologizes once and skitters back out the door for more water. Sansa exhales. Kieran continues to stand in the door, curiosity in his golden eyes.

“What?” she bites harshly. She may be a caged pet, but she’s betrothed to the King. She will not fear a  _ guard _ . The guard in question peers out the doorway and down the halls in every direction he can seem to manage, before turning back to her.

“How long have you been practicing?” he asks, voice low. Sansa feels ice run down the back of her neck.

So he  _ had _ seen. She wonders if Shae had, too.

The bastard puts his hands up.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he whispers. Sansa doesn’t believe him. He sighs.

“Alright, kid. Keep practicing, though. From what I know, that’s good form, and your instincts are good. Best of luck,” he says, and wanders back out the doorway, to return to guard duty.

He doesn’t push the envelope, not once. But Kieran Snow continues to find his way onto her guard roster, continues to be stationed outside her door, and continues to befuddle her.

Sansa holds her head high and ignores him, with the exception of one thing.

Every night, she asks Shae to bring her an extra pitcher of water. She makes sure it’s gone by the morning- after all, it wouldn’t do for Cersei, or, gods forbid, Joffrey, to find out what she has been doing.

Sansa finds, in addition, a little book on her bed, one morning. From the easy smile Kieran gives her that morning, it’s from him.

It’s full of sketches- poses, references. Sansa finds the ones she needs, and practices them every night, without fail. Some mornings, when she goes to the godswood, she pulls as much water from the sea as she can, and just- and just  _ plays _ with it, swirling it about her head.

She learns to freeze it after roughly a month of hard practice, learns to fire those frozen pieces at breakneck speed not long after.

She’s grateful that she’s not one of the other people in the book, with their stone and their fire (though the air might be easier), that can’t be hidden as easily as water can.

When her moonblood comes (or, rather, the day after), Sansa realizes that, had it been water, she likely could have just removed it from the sheets.

Except, she doesn’t know how to do that.

So, Sansa Stark, being the bright, stubborn young girl that she is, practices.

It becomes easier and easier and easier. Soon enough, with a flick of her fingers, she can summon water from anything- even plants.

Then, when she pricks her finger, once, and the drop of blood floats in midair… well, Sansa has never been one to back down from a challenge.

It’s sickening, truly. She begins with rats- for who could care for rats?- and other vermin, watching them writhe against her power. She is in every vein of their bodies, every single capillary. It feels disgusting, feels wrong upon her skin, but Sansa will do it, for a chance to maybe, just maybe, escape this Southron hell she finds herself in.

To excuse how she passes the time, Sansa sews, as well. Oh, of course she makes wide Lannister capes and red and gold and black dresses of all kinds of finery, but-

But Sansa Stark finds soft white fur pelts that haven’t been used because they’re not quite the quality the royal family wishes for. She finds thick gray cloth in Stark colors that she knows the Lannisters will never use. She finds a great many pieces of cloth that serve a much better purpose in the lovely little dove-gray things she sews for herself. She hides them at the bottom of her chest, a whispered wish to go  _ home. _

She cries to herself, on these days. Sansa doesn’t see the young man with the golden eyes watching her as she does so, doesn’t see fire dance around his fists when he clutches them in anger.

She cries, and cries, and cries, and then, when the tears aren’t enough anymore, she flicks them from her face and embeds them into the wall in front of her, wishing it were Joffrey’s face. Or maybe Cersei’s.

Sansa thinks of the rats dragged across the floor, thinks of how awful it felt, and the rat’s frantic squeaks of terror. She nearly loses her dinner just thinking of doing that to another person.

_ ‘Cursed, _ ’ she thinks,  _ ‘You’re cursed.’ _

Sansa knows, however, that she needs the skill, no matter how badly it upsets her stomach.

However, that night, as she looks to the moon, she vows that she will never use it if not in self-defense.

It doesn’t do anything to soothe the feeling of wrongness, but it’s good to know that the boundary is there.

-

He has to walk halfway down the hallway to get control of his fire back.

The torches on the walls have scorched the ceiling, just a little bit, as they react to his anger.

‘ _ That poor girl, _ ’ he thinks. He’s seen what she’s been doing, seen every second of it (well, not every second, but the intent is there), seen how she’s growing, what she’s becoming.

She’s growing into an incredible bender, that’s for sure.

He checks the torches. They’ve settled down a little now, burning a little higher than normal. The firebender gives a little snort, releasing a puff of flame as he does so, and returns to his post.

Her crying has slowed, now- no, it’s stopped. Instead, Kieran Snow hears the faint thunk of what he assumes is ice hitting the wall.

Kieran manages a faint, but no less sharp, smile.

Finally, the little she-wolf has grown her claws.

He closes fire-golden eyes for a moment, and listens to the swish and swirl of water in the room, listens to the ring of ice on ice and feels the air grow ever-colder as she practices.

Kieran wonders what she’ll use it for, once the secret’s out, if it ever will be. He knows that a waterbender that’s already so talented without any formal training is likely a force to be reckoned with, and he knows that if she was introduced to his father’s House or the Manderlys to the East, they’d jump to train her in an instant.

Kieran would train her, if he could. His father is an excellent waterbender, but his mother was a firebender, and he takes after her, unfortunately.

Functionally speaking, fire is the least useful element when everyone involved is more than happy to kill and has access to their element. Even on the best of days, Kieran wouldn’t bet on himself if he got into a fight with little Sansa even now, especially this close to the sea- he’d be a dozen feet underwater in less than a second. Well, maybe not Sansa, not yet, but he would lose to his cousins in little more than a heartbeat, to say nothing of his father or, even more terrifyingly, his aunt.

But Sansa would know the Manderlys, he tells himself, would know House Manderly better than she knows the Morans and the Skeirs to the west. Most people do.

He’s sure that Braavos, too, would have excellent waterbenders, or Dorne, or  _ anywhere but here. _

The little wolf needs a teacher, and she needs one  _ now. _

He will take her away from here, if she asks it. But he will not lead her back North if she does not ask. There is no point, if she does not trust him.

-

Sansa is quick on her feet and quicker on the draw, which is what saves her when Lord Varys enters her room.

She, almost instinctively, reaches out for the water in the pitcher less than a foot from her hand, almost turns it to ice against his throat.

Almost.

Remembering that it would likely be foolish to either reveal her abilities to an enemy or threaten an ally, she stays her own hand, takes a deep breath, and lowers her head. It, like before, is still rooted in a genuine fear of this man, but now-

But now, if she times it right, whenever Joffrey takes a step forwards, she can simply  _ squeeze. _ To be rid of him sounds quite nice, and it is self-defense, no matter what she does.

_ ‘Maybe Robb won’t have to give me Joffrey’s head on our way out of King’s Landing,’ _ she thinks to herself, not meeting Lord Varys’s eyes,  _ ‘Maybe I’ll take it for myself.’ _

Sansa Stark, Kingslayer. She likes the sound of that.

“Yes, my lord?” she asks sweetly, hiding the shake to her voice, and hiding the shake of the water in the pitcher, too.

He seems to lose interest in her quickly. Sansa has learned just as quickly which of the servants are in his employ- and which are the Queen’s, and which are Littlefinger’s, and which are Tyrion’s. She avoids them all- even Shae, her handmaiden, who is clearly receiving favoritism from someone, though Sansa does not know who.

She likes Shae, though, and clearly the older woman shares some of the same feelings, because she’s willing to protect her when other handmaidens have never lifted one hand to do so.

Kieran, though- he’s so obviously a Queen’s man that Sansa wonders if he isn’t- if he reports to Tyrion or Baelish or Varys instead- or if Cersei truly is that stupid, or that drunk, or both.

Or maybe, just maybe, the young man with the golden eyes might be on her side.

It’s the best outcome, truly, but its one that Sansa doesn’t hope all that much for. In this city, everyone’s someone’s pawn, and she doesn’t believe that Snow isn’t receiving a little on the side from  _ someone. _

She sighs as Varys leaves, and returns to her water practices. Now, even when she wears long dresses, she can spin with her hips and slash a water-whip into the wall with incredible speed. It’s something that pleases her, deep down, knowing that she can defend herself when Stannis Baratheon brings the might he can muster to bear.

She pays no heed to the Queen Mother, pays no heed to the machinations of mockingbirds and little lions and spiders (well, she pays enough to keep them in mind, but not much else), and pays no heed to the King.

She shuts herself in her room and practices, and practices, and practices, and sews, and sews, and sews, until she can hide herself in warm Stark-colored clothing and whip a stream of water around so fast it would take a man’s head clean off.

And, even then, under the watchful eye of the firebender that’s appointed himself as her primary guard, she practices.

-

Miles and miles west and north, in an old ruined castle, a littler girl with soft, dark hair and ice-gray eyes cannot afford to waste her time with a silly moral compass.

She stares a rat in the eye, and feels the pull and swish of the water in its body. And then, matching the pull, she tugs.

She tugs and tugs and tugs until the rats dance below the ruined towers of Harrenhal. And, when the rats are too scared to come near her, she starts upon the men.

Not Tywin- never Tywin. She cannot afford to be seen using such magic so close to someone who could and probably would cart her off to be studies.

No matter how badly she wants him to just be  _ gone _ , she can’t.

But she can kill other men, with her own hands.

Jaqen seems to approve, at least a little bit. She sees him, atop the various stairwells, in Lannister garb. She knows he sees something in her, beyond her existing talent. He watches her as she refills cups with her mind and not her hands (well, she uses her hands, just not in the usual way), watches as she, ever so carefully, increases her skill, until she can throw a dart of ice across the courtyard with none the wiser, with pinpoint accuracy.

Arya more than preens at that. She knows she can be proud of herself for at least that much.

Neither sister knows that, completely and utterly independently of one another, they’ve rediscovered one of the darkest arts known to waterbenders. Years on, the elder of the two will learn its opposite but for now, they only know destruction.

Perhaps, once upon a time, the Boltons or another such family were known for bloodbenders, especially those who could bend away from a full moon.

Perhaps, the Starks (and, so far south that the Northerners would not have cared, the Tullys) had been even better waterbenders than the Boltons- for if a jack of all trades but master of none is still better than a master of only one, then a master of two and a jack of the rest will likely beat it anyways.

Perhaps, Bolton women had been married into the family. Perhaps, the once nigh-impossible talent lurks in the blood of every single waterbender in the North, or at least every single noble waterbender. Perhaps, even, there are more beyond the wall, in a cold land where the snow abounds and water is everywhere to be found, even if you have to try a little harder to work with it.

However, the fact that these little girls, such a long ways apart, both rediscovered this terrible, terrible gift is truly only indicative of a single thing:

Both Arya and Sansa Stark are godsdamned  _ geniuses. _

-

A world away, a boy with dyed-blue hair that should be bone-white smiles a faint smile. Fire swirls in his palm, deep purple and hotter than any other fire he’s ever seen. It’s draining, sure, but even without dragons, it is hot enough to melt iron armor, and hot enough to crack the mortar between stones in ancient castles.

It is the closest thing he will get, he thinks.

_ ‘I do not need a dragon,’ _ Aegon Targaryen (Blackfyre, truly, but he is a boy- he doesn’t know) thinks to himself,  _ ‘I am the damned dragon.’ _

It’s a reassuring mantra, especially when he doesn’t really feel in control of it. When he puts his burning palms beneath his own arms, he feels nothing, but when the fire turns orange as it spins away from him, back to true fire- well.

He’s burnt his hands enough times trying to save dolls to think he’s suddenly immune to all fire.

“You know, you’re getting quite good at that,” Jon laughs, as he rests his back on the mast.

“Not as good as I need to be, Father,” Aegon replies, sending another jet of flame across the side of the ship, and away, towards the ocean breezes.

“But close,” Jon replies. He’s always been warm, kind, caring, when Aegon needs it. He wonders if Jon wishes he truly were his son, his and Rhaegar’s both. He’s certain he’s right, but he’s not so rude as to bring it up to the man.

Aegon Targaryen sighs, snuffing the flame in his palms right out.

Jon smiles softly at his charge, and looks west, out to sea.

_ ‘To home,’ _ Aegon thinks. He wonders what Jon thinks, of home, of his power, of- of everything, really.

He’d like to know.

-

Further north and back half a world west, an old, blind man smiles at two younger men. He lights the fire with a flick of his fingers- just about the only thing he can do now, since he can’t aim properly anymore. Back in his prime, Maester Aemon knows, he was  _ brilliant, _ a talented thing. Even in his old age, when he could still see, he could beat any firebender he’d ever met in a fight.

He remembers when he was young, and could bend even  _ wildfire _ to his will, and resists the urge to send the fires blazing so strongly that the warmth can be felt for miles.

He knows Jon and Samwell know nothing of this, know nothing of fire beneath skin and the beloved feeling that goes along with warmth.

Aemon remembers when firebenders were the Watch’s greatest pride, remembers how brothers would cluster so close to him that even Aemon’s natural warmth was outpaced by a dozen shivering men.

He feels something buried in Jon’s chest, feels fire calling out to him from deep within, but-

But Jon does not feel like he burns hot, like Aegon had, the fifth to bear his name and the first to match dragonfire in strength. Well, he does, but it’s buried, deep below, like he’s still a child and he hasn’t set fire to anything yet.

Aemon wonders what it will take for this boy to burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this is fun to write!


	2. blessings and risks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so the next chapter was finished surprisingly quickly (I only update when I've finished the chapter after), but this probably won't be the norm.

There are many elements, when one considers the periodic table. Water is not an element. Air is many elements- nitrogen, oxygen, carbon dioxide- the whole gang. Earth is much the same- for one, it’s usually not an element per se, and for two, it’s usually many. Fire isn’t even matter- it’s the act of combustion.

However, it’s easier to consider all of these a part of the “four-element” system, and that is what the Maesters of the Citadel do. Even though they absolutely know it’s incorrect.

It’s rare, that a child is born who can bend one of these four not-elements to their will. Not quite as rare as greensight, but rare enough that most who have the talent find it difficult to receive training, if they ever meet another at all.

Studying these “benders” is one of the true passions of the Citadel. Waterbending Maesters are the most beloved- after all, unlike dragons, waterbending healing is something that can be understood, studied, and taught. It may be strange, and it may be mystical, but there is something of a science to it, and the Citadel appreciates that reasonableness.

Earthbenders are also appreciated. Earthbending Archmaesters helped build the Citadel, after all.

There’s a pattern to Avatars, too, and the Citadel enjoys the repetitiveness. They’ve taught Avatar after Avatar how to hide and how to do good without revealing themselves, especially during the Targaryen dynasty.

A little over a decade ago, they’d lost their Avatar, a young airbender with a wide smile and a spring in their step. The Maesters don’t know what took them, just that something did.

Now, it seems, there should be someone new- a waterbender, as they always are.

Far to the north, unbeknownst to the Maesters, such a boy hovers, eyes wide and glowing brightly, above his chair.

This little boy, one day, will be one of their best. He will be a standard that the earthbender that follows and the firebender that follows her and the airbender that follows them will be compared to.

After all, it’s good luck to name an Avatar after one of their past lives.

-

Arya knows that she doesn’t have much time.

So, she runs, with Gendry and Hot Pie and she freezes every single person who tries to follow them in their tracks. Hot Pie looks terrified. So does Gendry, but Gendry also slams a man with a wall of solid earth, so he’s not exactly unarmed.

Jaqen leaves them, after that. Arya lets him go, and raises water from the grass as they walk through the forests, knowing that the rivers won't be safe.

Gendry walks beside her, shoulder to shoulder. She wonders if he knows more of his control of earth than she knows of her water. She doubts it- he'd looked just as surprised as the rest of them, though maybe it had been because of the strength of it, rather than the fact that he'd done it in the first place.

Hot Pie just looks like he's in shock. He keeps good pace with them, though, and he can be rather funny (even though his constant talks of food make them rather hungry), so Arya doesn't mind the fact that he looks for all the world to be in a daze.

She practices her water-whips as they go. She can’t wait until they get to Riverrun, and she can show her mother and brother just how good she’s gotten at this kind of thing. She bets she can wash away anyone who tries to match her.

Unless, of course, they know exactly what she is, but Arya doubts it. She’s never met anyone else who can do anything like what she does ( _ except your sister _ , a little voice whispers in the back of her head,  _ and, like usual, she’s better at it _ ).

Arya learns to freeze things, too. She ices over stream after stream, and re-melts them. She sends shards of ice flying into tree trunks and waves of water rise up behind her.

Gendry sends earth in waves from where he steps. He’s learning, too, eyes bright as he teaches himself.

He won’t be the world’s most powerful earthbender, obviously- he’s never been taught before, after all- but he will be among the greatest, once he finds a proper tutor.

Arya will be among the greats, too. She, like her sister and brother (and other brother, though he isn’t really one) will find teachers someday, and will rise in strength until they’re practically unmatchable.

Jaqen likely knew what he was doing when he passed the coin to a bloodbender, of all things.

She holds her head high, and continues on, a world away from one brother and miles upon miles from her sister and mother.

She wonders if Robb will learn this, too- how to slice and kill with nothing but ice.

It doesn’t seem fitting for him, for some reason. Doesn’t seem fitting for Jon, either, despite his cold solemness.

Arya sighs, star of ice melting in her palm, and smiles at Gendry and Hot Pie. The latter has decided to talk about something other than crunchy or crumbly pastries today, and has started in on biscuits instead.

Arya laughs when she should laugh and oohs when she should ooh. It is interesting, and if it had been any other time, she might be more invested.

_ ‘Someday,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘I’ll introduce him to Robb, and Hot Pie can say that he cooked for a King!’ _

It’s a nice enough thought. She knows it’s hopeful to wish for it, but she wishes for it all the same.

-

Samwell Tarly is a surprisingly strong earthbender, Maester Aemon learns. It shouldn’t be that surprising- from what Maester Aemon remembers from the Citadel, the Reach is as known for Earthbenders as the Northern coast and Dorne are for waterbenders (unsurprisingly, the Vale ranks first for airbenders followed closely by the Stormlands, who are also known for earthbenders, and Dorne also ranks first for firebenders, while the Crownlands and the Riverlands are known for all sorts). Unfortunately, the boy seems to be refusing to use this extraordinary gift of his against his brothers of the Watch.

If Maester Aemon could still see, he would stare at young Sam until he understands how  _ stupid _ he’s being. Maester Aemon may be old and relatively frail (though much less so than all those his age that he’s never met), but he would fire-blast anyone who dared treat him like he was lesser for his intellectual pursuits.

And Samwell Tarly may be weak of body, but again, he is a strong earthbender, and Aemon doubts that he even knows how strong the boy is.

Earthbenders may tend to be strong and muscular, after all, but that does not mean that  _ all _ powerful earthbenders are big, muscular men. He’s heard from Maester Cressen that the Baratheon girl is a frightfully strong earthbender as well, to the point where she can defend herself with her eyes closed. When he was still at the Citadel, several of the older Maesters, architecture specialists, looked frail, but could lift a house with ease. He hasn’t seen them since he’s been sworn to the Watch, but he’s sure they’ve taught a new generation the ways of shaping a city (not like the first Avatar, the Builder, had, eight thousand something years ago, but shaping a city nonetheless).

He’s sure that Sam can defend himself if he wants to, but-

But, for some reason, he doesn’t want to.

Maester Aemon, in the back of his head, curses Randyll Tarly for being so gods-damned stupid.

He’s sure that the man’s second son, while likely a strapping, talented boy when it comes to standard combat, is nowhere near the earthbender that his first is. Samwell is a natural talent, after all, and Ser Alliser has taken to him far more gracefully now that he has a competent earthbender to train instead of an incompetent swordsman.

Sam would fit in well at the Citadel, with what Aemon assumes are bright eyes and a passion for learning that is shared amongst the novices (well, not all novices, unfortunately, but good novices that will become good Maesters tend to start off just like Sam). He doesn’t know why the boy wasn’t sent there in the first place, but he does know that when his time here is done, there would be no better to take his place.

The old firebender smiles from the high table, though he cannot see any of the new recruits. With a wave of his hands, the fires of the candles and the hearth burn brighter and brighter. He can feel Ser Alliser’s faint smile, knows that the knight has always been entertained, at least, with dramatic shows of Targaryen firebending.

There are a few scattered claps, mostly for the sake of the warmth.

Maester Aemon smiles again, knowing that while there might not be much in this new crop of boys and criminals, some of them will be worth something one of these days.

There hasn’t been another firebender in years, and he only hopes Jon will awaken his before they all die of cold once Aemon is gone.

-

“You know, you really should keep an eye on the door when you practice, kid,” a warm voice says. Sansa almost decapitates Kieran with an ice blade, but thinks better of it.

Part of that, of course, is the fireball the bastard holds in his hands.

He doesn’t look particularly menacing, even with the fireball in his hands. He walks over to her candles, and lights them calmly.

“Snow,” she says calmly. She forms the water in her pitcher into a water-whip, just in case.

“Lady Sansa,” he replies, leaning against the wall. She blinks.

“What do you want, Snow?” she asks, stepping forwards. Kieran raises his eyes to the ceiling and chuckles, sparks flickering between his fingers.

“I see you’ve taken to the lessons in the book quite well,” he says in answer.

“What. Do. You. Want.  _ Snow? _ ” she grinds out again, taking another step towards the golden-eyed guard. The smile slips off his face, and he grows reserved, hands falling to his sides.

“To see you drown anyone who dare hurts you, little wolf,” he replies, stepping back out the door.

It’s refreshing, Sansa thinks, to hear someone want  _ her _ to be able to protect  _ herself, _ instead of simply wishing to shield her from the horrors of the world.

Sansa isn’t shielded. She doesn’t want protection. Guards can switch loyalties in an instant, protectors can lose their heads to the Lannisters. She wants to be able to protect herself, so that when her back is to the wall, she can raise a tidal wave and ride it all the way out of this gods-damned city.

“Wait, Kieran,” she calls. She knows using his name instead of his status as a bastard will get his attention, at the very least.

“Yes, milady?” he replies, voice cool.

“Do you know anyone who could teach me?” she asks. Kieran’s eyes sparkle in delight.

“I thought you’d never ask, little wolf.”

It is then, not long before Stannis arrives to kill them all, that Sansa and Kieran begin to plan.

He is already in her official guard. The next time something big happens, something big enough that they’d be able to reasonably expect to slip away without much fanfare for at least a few hours (and Kieran, at the very least, is confident that they’d be able to make it out of the city by then), Sansa will grab her bag of nice, if plain traveling clothing, and Kieran will ditch his City Guard armor, and they will run North to the Manderlys or even further to the Karstarks- or west to Kieran’s father’s family or the Mormonts. Or sail. Sansa doesn’t have much preference, as long as they stick on the coast the whole way, at least until they get to the Neck and the Reeds.

She hopes that somewhere, along her journey, she might meet another animal companion to share her time. No Lady, certainly, but perhaps an otter, or a shadowcat, or one of those massive Northern bear-dogs she’d heard about in one of Old Nan’s tales, or a snow bear.

A water creature would be nice, she decides, or at least one that can be in the water some of the time.

She drifts off that night with knowledge that the Plan is on its way, and soon enough, she will escape, off to learn the secrets of waterbending with whatever family they choose.

Waterbending. It’s a nice word, she decides. She is a waterbender. She likes that.

-

Varys did not get into the position he currently holds because he was an idiot.

He’s met a few benders over the course of his life- more than a few, in fact. He knows that little Aegon is a talented young firebender, and knows that the guard currently watching the Stark girl is, though not as powerful, quite possibly more skilled.

He does not say this to Lord Baelish, though the man, whose attention is fixed upon the Stark girl. If the girl disappears under all of their noses, well- it will create quite the chaotic environment indeed. And, just possibly, it might add a powerful new bridal candidate for Aegon, once the girl trains for a few more years.

Varys knows that waterbenders, once they receive proper training, are forces to be reckoned with. A  _ public _ waterbender queen for a firebender king would be a sight to behold indeed, possibly even better than Daenerys or Arianne.

He does not say any of this to Lord Tyrion, either. He thinks, perhaps, that the man might know, but Varys had not heard anything of the Stark girl’s talents until he saw them with his own eyes. She might very well be fully capable of hiding the truth from her sharp little handmaiden.

He wishes them the best, really. Her flight will weaken the Lannister position, and possibly the Baratheon one as well, and if anything happens to Robb Stark, well… it might be nice to have someone who could be persuaded to rejoin the Kingdoms as the King in the North’s only confirmed heir.

Therefore, Varys sits, keeping quiet, and ever so gently pushing others away, as a firebender and a waterbender make plans for escape and teaching, and prepares to laugh as the chaos mounts and the Princess of the North drowns those who would keep her chained.

Yes, indeed. If she is not to be a bride for Aegon, perhaps her eldest waterbending daughter for his firstborn son. He has no doubt that she will have them, when she marries- it’s a question of who and when, not if, after all.

Varys wants to chuckle, but stays silent instead, watching Littlefinger and the Queen and the little lion carefully, making sure that they don’t know.

It wouldn’t do to have them secure in the knowledge that their little Key to the North is safely caged, after all. They do need to be shaken up a bit.

Maybe he’ll offer just a little bit of aid. After all, a favor needs to be repaid.

-

Sansa Stark looks out the window at the full moon above her while the battle rages below, and decides that it is time.

She will feel bad, abandoning Shae, and maybe she will feel a little bit of remorse with leaving the handmaidens to their praying and their fear, but now- now, when the battle rages like a wild thing, when the chaos shakes the city, when  _ none will care to look for her _ \- this is when she will make her escape, she knows it.

Sansa makes her way to her room, Kieran following her like a tall, darkened shadow. She grips her travel bag in her hand, and changes in her room swiftly, while Kieran sheds his armor in the main room. They both slide out of the window- Sansa clings to Kieran’s back, and Kieran uses his fire to jettison the both of them to the nearest roof.

Then, they start to run.

They run across rooftops, Sansa making ice-bridges with the increasing amounts of frighteningly dirty water that dot the streets below.

If she’d been on the ground, it would have taken all night to navigate the streets packed with terrified people that rarely go in the correct direction. Now, they skate between roofs and near the wall of the city, and slide down to the harbor below. Bobbing in the water, far enough from the Blackwater that it hadn’t caught fire, is a ship.

“The Spider sends his blessings,” a warm voice hums. Kieran summons his fire, and Sansa summons water-whips.

“We’re here to take you to White Harbor, brats, coastside, so nobody suspects,” the captain growls. Kieran blinks. Sansa also blinks.

“Why should we trust you?” Sansa asks, stepping forwards, water-whips grazing against the captain’s neck.

“You shouldn’t, but you should trust me,” a woman’s voice responds. Sansa looks up. The girl is dark of hair and possesses a striking pair of blue eyes.

“Oh, you must be Mya Stone,” Kieran gasps. Mya curtsies, and smiles. Sansa boards the ship. Kieran follows her.

There’s the sound of shouting, and a few men in Lannister colors begin to chase after the ship as it races out of the harbor. With a wave of her hand, Mya Stone- Sansa assumes the girl is one of the late King Robert’s bastard daughters- a massive boulder crushes said men.

“You’re an earthbender!” Kieran shouts joyfully. Mya laughs.

“Indeed I am. Now, as the captain was saying, we are sailing to White Harbor. I haven’t heard from Edric in several moon’s turns, so I have chosen to avoid the wrath of the bastard that calls himself my half-brother by disappearing from his sight entirely.”

Sansa hums.

“You wish for us to find you a home in the North, somewhere where Joffrey can’t touch you,” she replies. Mya nods.

“I made an agreement with the Spider to secure you safe passage, in exchange for not fighting for my father’s claim when the moment arises. I will simply fade into the darkness, as he wishes me to.”

Sansa, once upon a time, would have protested, but now- but now, the idea of slipping into a quiet life, with none to bother her that she could not take care of- it sounds nice, really.

-

Sandor Clegane grunts his way up to the little bird’s room, fully ready to run as far as he can from this gods-damned place. There, he finds her already gone, the window open, and a little scrap of white material- fur, he decides, when he feels it.

There is a large chest, open, and dresses strewn about. Below all of them, there are gray fabrics, and wolf sigils.

Sandor blinks in amazement, before he begins his run far, far away from the city.

_ ‘So,’ _ he thinks,  _ ‘The little bird flew the coop? Didn’t think she had it in her. _ ’

Far below the Red Keep, little ice-bridges melt in the autumn heat. A firey battle rages, and, away from it all, three benders smile at each other, looks of pride upon their faces.

The little bird has flown the coop, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time to take a nap...  
Also: Mya knows who she is, because I think it works better.


	3. along the tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa makes her way to White Harbor, and Shireen meets her cousin (and discusses the Avatar with a certain Red Witch)

“Hey!” Sansa yells, and spins, digging her boots into the soft earth. The water-whip that follows her movement lashes into her opponent, who pushes it back with equal strength.

Said opponent is a girl around her age she’s taken to sparring with. She’s brilliant at it- not better than Sansa, but brilliant- and Sansa, for the first time, feels like she’s properly learning.

The two girls spar under the watchful eye of the peasant girl’s mother, a local healer, and Kieran and Mya, who spar in their own ways, though both clearly have been keeping their sights fixed on the Northern girl.

They’ve managed to make it just north of Gulltown, now. They’d faced a nasty storm, but Sansa has gotten better and better at controlling the waves near her, and they’d not crashed.

Sansa spins again, and sends ice towards her sparring partner, who turns it back to water with a flick of the hand and a giggle. Sansa laughs, too, and pulls her fur-lined hood over her hair.

It’s autumn, after all, and while the Vale might not be as cold as the North, it’s still good to wear layers.

Mya has managed to pin Kieran with a stone hold that the firebender can’t wriggle out of. He tries, obviously, but bows out with grace, to follow his Princess and the earthbender.

Sansa, for the first time in over a year, feels at peace.

The wind from the sea smells like salt and joy, unlike the stench that wafts from the Blackwater back in King’s Landing, and the breeze is cool. Anya, the peasant girl, seems happy, too. Sansa wonders if she could come back for her, someday, offer her a position at Winterfell.

Then, she reconsiders it. It would be cruel, she decides, to take such a girl so far from the sea. If Sansa’s future involves a keep by the ocean, however, maybe, just maybe, she will suggest it.

In addition to sparring with Anya, Sansa has been learning healing from her mother, Deana. The older waterbender is a brilliant teacher, and Sansa will be sad to say goodbye to her, even if they’ve only known each other for little more than a fortnight.

Now, however, the ship is ready to leave, again, and Mya and Kieran and Sansa say their goodbyes. She steps onto the ship again, leaning into the breeze, ready to send her brother and mother a letter from White Harbor, and to never set foot in King’s Landing again.

-

Speaking of King’s Landing, Lord Petyr Baelish, owner of whorehouses and airbender of no particular note, is in a panic.

He’d promised Catelyn her daughters. Arya, he knows, is in Harrenhal, and Sansa  _ was _ in King’s Landing. Until, of course, the Battle of the Blackwater.

At first, everyone had thought that the poor girl had been a casualty of some guard (the chief suspect is the bastard, Kieran Snow) who’d decided to switch loyalties early on, and her body would turn up eventually. An offer of reward for it is placed, and several dozen dead redheads make their way to the Red Keep, but, as Cersei makes certain that everyone knows, none of them are Sansa Stark.

Then, word comes in of a redheaded noble girl in Stark colors in Gulltown. According to the sources, she’d been gone for a week by the time the information reaches them, but it’s still a lead.

According to Baelish’s men there, she’d been accompanied by a dark-skinned man with golden eyes- a match for the chief suspect amongst the Lannister guards, who apparently is not as loyal to the Queen as the Queen had thought he was- and a woman whose description matches exactly the missing Mya Stone.

If they’d set sail from Gulltown a week before they’d received news, and the Stark girl had already been gone for three, Petyr is certain that they’d be most of the way to White Harbor by now, and that is disaster for his plans.

Indeed, they receive another raven the week after that, and Petyr assumes that this one is likely from last week, as well. This one reads that the little bird has flown all the way to the Paps. Petyr isn’t stupid- far from it. He makes the logical conclusion that their next stop is White Harbor.

The problem, of course, with taking any action in White Harbor, is the fact that White Harbor is home to the Manderlys. And the Manderlys, being wealthy of their own accord but also fiercely loyal to the Starks- a house of which it currently seems Lady Sansa is the only heir- cannot be bought.

Baelish has an informant or two in White Harbor, but he has not heard from them in months. Likely, by the time he’d be able to send a raven to them, Sansa would be sequestered into safety by those same fiercely loyal mermen.

_ ‘A water-wolf, _ ’ he thinks,  _ ‘A bird, a wolf, and a fish. How interesting.’ _

Despite his own airbending talents, he’s not considered the slight possibility that little Sansa has a few tricks up her sleeve of her own. Or that she might very well be moving with someone else who has those talents under their belt.

Petyr will hope for the best. However, he doesn’t prepare for it- this well and truly has fucked up all of his plans.

He hadn’t expected the girl to have enough backbone to jump ship when she saw the opportunity, and he certainly hadn’t expected her to survive the attempt.

Petyr isn’t sure whether he wants to congratulate Sansa for her exceptional escape, or curse her for her poor timing.

Both, he decides eventually, are good.

-

Sansa arrives at White Harbor with little fanfare. Beside her, Mya is bedecked in bastard Baratheon colors, and Kieran wears gray with a blue sea-hawk embroidered onto the fabric- the bastard Moran colors. Sansa finds it funny that she, who once spoke down to her own half-brother, now stands between two bastards as she prepares to greet her vassals with joy (genuine joy, not what she’s faked for a year- she’s heard the Manderlys are loyal to the core, and she can’t wait to meet the heir’s two daughters).

They slip off the boat in the dark of night. Sansa tugs her hood over her hair, and follows Kieran, who carries himself stiffly, like a man who hides a secret.

It’s just before dawn that they arrive at the castle gates. Guards with tridents in their hands call down for them to identify themselves.

“I am Kieran Snow, nephew of Lady Zahara Moran of Mistheart. I seek an audience with Lord Manderly!” he calls. Sansa knows that this is the key part. She feels Mya tense beside her, ready to send a wall of earth if the guards react… poorly to their next piece of information.

“And your companions?”

“Mya Stone, natural-born daughter of the late King of the South, Robert Baratheon,” he calls, and motions for Sansa to remove her hood and speak.

“And Princess Sansa Stark, younger sister to the King in the North,” she finishes. Even in the low light of the early morning, she can see the jaws of these men drop.

“Can you prove your identity, Your Grace?” one of the guards- the smartest among them, apparently- asks.

“I can indeed, but all I can think of at the moment would be needed to confirmed by my mother or brother. I am tired from my journey, however, and I would like to speak to Lord Wyman.”

The guards nod frantically. One of the men has already rushed off to alert Lord Manderly, while another lets the three of them through the gate.

“Great job, kid,” Kieran hums. Mya nods in agreement. Sansa smiles widely at the both of them, and practically skips forwards, red hair alight like fire in the low light of morning.

They’re shepherded into the Great Hall of New Castle with great haste. Clearly, the Lord of White Harbor has been, as well, and, while clearly shaking off sleep, his smile is wide.

“Princess Sansa, I am told?” he asks, a quiver of excitement in his voice. Sansa nods, and curtsies.

“My apologies, my lady, but I would like to be sure that it is you,” he says. Sansa nods again.

“It is alright, Lord Wyman, and if I were in your position, I would be asking the same question. I would suggest sending a letter to my mother saying that when I was a little girl, my half-brother, now a Night’s Watchman, covered himself in flour and pretended to be a ghost, and Arya punched him in the face for scaring Bran,” she replies. It hurts her, to mention Bran, and Arya, and the joy they’d had when they were little children.

“I will, my lady. Now, for the time being- I would like to hear of how two highborn bastards- one a King’s daughter- escaped King’s Landing with a princess in tow. I feel it would be quite the story, no?” the old, immense man asks, leaning forwards in his chair.

“Very well, Lord Wyman. May we have some water, bread, and salt?” she asks. The Lord of White Harbor waves a hand, and it is brought to them. Each of the three eat some, before Sansa waves a hand, and the water in the pitcher leaps out and into the air.

“You’re a waterbender!” Lord Wyman cries excitedly.

“Yes. Kieran, Mya?” she asks in invitation. Mya stands, and raises a few stone odds and ends across the hall. She’s too polite, Sansa thinks, to tamper with Lord Wyman’s floors. Kieran stands after her, tossing fire between his fingers.

Sansa smiles.

“Most of my opportunity for escape came from the fact that Cersei was foolish enough to hire a loyal Northman to be her spy,” she begins, indicating Kieran with a wave of her hand.

They tell their story long into the morning.

-

His mother cries when she receives the letter, cries long and hard into the day. Robb is worried, at first, before she hands him a letter with a broken merman seal, and tells him to read.

He sits down, a hand over his mouth, and stares.

“She’s safe, Robb,” she finally gasps out, hugging him tightly, “Sansa’s safe.”

The letter says very little about Arya, unfortunately, only that the Lannisters have not had her since before his father’s execution. The King in the North slumps at that, but a sister back is better than nothing.

_ ‘And she’s back in the North, too,’ _ he thinks,  _ ‘Smart girl. I’ll have to reward the Manderlys and Morans for this, of course, but this is  _ brilliant. _ ’ _

Talisa grasps his hand in hers, and asks him what’s on his mind. He shows her the letter, too.

By morning, the whole camp knows. Cheers are held for the Princess’s safety, and Wylis Manderly and Avir Moran cheer the loudest of all of them.

“He's a smart boy, my son,” Avir says proudly, “Takes after his mother.”

Robb shrugs his shoulders, but considers the order to legitimize Kieran Snow as a Moran rather carefully.

Politics in their strange little region of the North are odd, but straightforwards. A Moran boy would not be of any contest against Moran girls, after all, and his male cousins are all older than him besides.

He decides to put it off until he meets the man himself. If anything happens to him, gods know Sansa would likely legitimize him herself.

Wylis Manderly continues to preen like a bird for the next week, as does Avir, though the latter makes more sense by a large margin.

He begins his own letter to Sansa shortly. It's stunted, full of apologies and congratulations and  _ questions _ and Robb has to rewrite it several times before it feels right, but it's his words. He sends them gladly.

-

The tricky thing about Avatars is that unless one is a bender themself or knows a great many of them, such as those within the Citadel, what they are is easily misconstrued and mistranslated, until the eventual result for non-benders is a completely different thing.

For example, the Azor Ahai prophecy, when one considers it, could  _ possibly _ reference an Avatar of some sort- perhaps Bran the Builder, even, or, if there were any, his predecessors.

The problem with followers of the Lord of Light is thus- against all statistical probabilities, not a single one of their priests or priestesses has ever been a bender with some knowledge of what the Avatar is.

Shireen, though. Shireen knows what the Avatar is. Maester Cressen had taught her, when she'd learned to use her Seismic Sense to feel out liars.

Shireen Baratheon considers the Avatar, and then nods, and decides on the spot.

_ ‘I don't know who this life’s version of the Avatar is,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘But I am going to find them, and I am going to teach them earthbending whether they like it or not.’ _

She misses Maester Cressen. The old earthbender had taught her everything she’d ever known about the subject, and he'd never told her father, either.

Shireen doesn't trust Melisandre, and she certainly doesn't trust her interpretation of the future. She loves him, but her father isn't the Avatar- he's the wrong age, for one, and he's not any kind of bender, much less one of all four elements.

Melisandre, she decides, is wrong and dumb, but a  _ dangerous  _ kind of wrong and dumb. Shireen doesn't feel safe anywhere near her, and she doubts that she ever will, no matter how badly her mother wants them to get along.

When Melisandre sits herself in front of Shireen, the Princess dares to say so out loud (that she's wrong, that is).

“And why, child, am I wrong that your father is our lord’s chosen?”

“Because he's not young enough. The reincarnation cycle points to someone around my age from the North or Dorne, not Father’s age from the Stormlands,” she replies, in an icy tone of voice. Melisandre looks on in confusion. Shireen stamps the ground twice, and a seat of stone roses to meet her.

“Father isn't the Avatar. I'm not the Avatar, either. They have weird glowy eyes and unimaginable power, and they just reincarnate into a new life when they die. I'm pretty sure, if you ignore the specific wording of your prophecies, a  _ mandatory reincarnation cycle _ is the definition of a promise.”

The Lady Melisandre’s eyes widen.

“And where did you learn this, child?”

“Just because it doesn't come from you doesn't make it an invalid source,” Shireen replies.

“Then tell me,” Melisandre says in desperation, “Tell me about this Avatar.”

Shireen sits up on her stone chair.

“Well, the first Avatar that we have recorded evidence of was Bran the Builder, who raised the Wall, Winterfell, and Storm’s End. Before us benders understood he was an Avatar, we had no idea how he did it, but a wall of ice is something an Avatar could have absolutely done,” she begins, Melisandre’s eyes glued to her, and her mother’s, before long.

You see, Shireen’s other special talent, beyond being a gifted earthbender, is her skill for memorization, and she’s read many books over the Avatar Cycle.

“And you wish to-”

“I want to teach the Avatar earthbending. Maester Cressen always said I was talented in it, and I think that this one might be the one you're waiting for.”

Melisandre blinks.

“I have to… go contemplate this development.”

Shireen smiles. At the very least, this may convince the Red Woman not to sacrifice her.

Or, it might have bought her some much-needed time.

And a moderate amount of respect from her mother. Can't forget that one.

-

Gendry and Arya spar more days than they don't, now.

The boy is slower and heavier on his feet, but that’s good for an earthbender, anyways. Arya, on the other hand, is lightning-quick, matching her water-whips with spins and agile flips in the air. Gendry is of the opinion that she’s just showboating because she can, now that they're far enough away from prying eyes. She’s getting better every day, and Gendry knows that she's not alone in that. He can push more stone with far more accuracy than he ever could while at Harrenhal.

It's on one of these practice days that they meet up with the Brotherhood Without Banners. He knows full well not to struggle, that the men before them might very well be stronger and more talented benders, and besides, the archer could probably put arrows in them before they'd completed their stances.

It's after a spar, again, that the Hound recognizes the only girl amongst them.

“What in the seven hells are you doing with the Stark bitch?” he growls, and just like that, with a flick of her hand, Arya produces an ice blade against the Hound’s throat.

“Well, my lady, you could have mentioned you were a waterbender,” Beric Dondarrion says gracefully with a wide smile.

Gendry, though- Gendry just has a lump in his throat.

He doesn't even work up a protest when he goes with a frantic-looking woman in red, who tells him he’s the son of a king and shepherds him to Dragonstone.

He does, however, spare a thought for one- the waterbender princess he’d left behind in the Riverlands.

“The Princess Shireen would like to see you,” an older, grizzled man says, as a young girl enters the room.

“Oh, you're an earthbender too!” is the first thing that leaves her mouth. She raises them both stone seats from the floor, and sits across from him.

“I've never met a cousin of mine who could bend too,” she hums. Gendry blinks.

“Is that why I'm here?” he asks. Shireen smiles.

“I don't know why Melisandre brought you specially here, but I did ask if she could find any of my cousins. Edric Storm is nice enough, I've heard, but he's no earthbender like we are,” she replies.

“And why did you ask for a related earthbender?”

“To teach you. I may not be able to leave for a while, but I can pass on what I've learned,” Princess Shireen says, and slams their stone chairs into the ground. She lands gracefully on her feet. Gendry lands less gracefully, but gets back up without complaint.

He's happy to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Functionally speaking, I added the Avatar = Azor Ahai because, for a prophesied hero to push back the dark with light, it does kind of fit, and I think it's funny that no preaching-oriented religious group would contain benders. Therefore, priests, septons, and septas wouldn't attract benders, but, say, the Silent Sisters might. In this scenario, no benders whatsoever = no knowledge of the Avatar.  
But also, because I think Shireen teaching Bran earthbending would be pretty neat.
> 
> (also, I am VERY tempted to give Sansa a polar bear dog. like y'all have no idea how much I want to do this. It physically hurts to consider not doing it. so Sansa will probably get a Naga-esque polar bear dog)


	4. the avatar state

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some Avatar Bran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am... so tired

Bran Stark knows, long before he reaches the Wall, that he is the Avatar.

It is Jojen Reed that tells him- Jojen, the little airbender, with his waterbender sister, Jojen who explains oh-so-many things.

Osha, it seems, knows what that means, too. Now, when she speaks to Bran, her fingers clench tighter around his arm, and the fingers of her other hand hold around her spear.

“If he’s really the Avatar,” she says in a huff, “He needs protecting, and you Southerners aren’t gonna do it.”

All of them, knowing better than to argue with her on that matter, now, let it drop. Bran practices his airbending with Jojen, and his waterbending with Meera.

Jojen fiddles with something or another, and looks up to meet Bran’s eyes.

“We’re going to visit your past life, so he can teach you firebending,” he says simply. Bran nods. He’d expected something like this. He’s never met a firebender before, and he doubts many are in the North- depending on how close the aspect of his past life is to the Wall, it might very well be closer than going to find a firebending master somewhere else.

Jojen makes clear that he is not an airbending master, not a proper one, at least- “Not like the Arryns are,” he says, and Bran believes him- but he’s  _ good _ , and Bran finds himself learning, like how he does with Meera.

He may not have the same range of motion that Meera does, but he is a good waterbender, nonetheless. While he cannot use the same stances Meera uses (unless he raises himself on a waterspout, but Meera isn’t willing to teach him that yet), he can produce a solid water-whip, and his control is flawless, to the point where he doesn’t need to turn the way Meera does to add force to his blows.

_ ‘Maybe this whole ‘Master of the elements’ thing won’t be so bad, _ ’ he thinks.

Rickon doesn’t show signs of waterbending, yet, but Meera and Bran promise to teach him if he ever does. He cries, of course, when they leave him with the Umbers. His tears dry out, of course, when he’s reminded by Bran that they might carry news of their siblings.

Something tells Bran that it was the wrong choice, to send his brother back south.

-

Sansa dodges Wylla’s opening strike with ease, and responds with one of her own. The dance is rapid-fire, and the green and redheads give as good as they get. Wylla ices the ground, and Sansa responds with firing icicles. Sansa grabs Wylla’s hand in a hold, or hoses her down, and Wylla responds easily.

Wylla, however, is beginning to wear down, and Sansa still has plenty left.

Wynafryd watches from the side of the training ground. She has been teaching the both of them in healing, but her talent as a fighter isn’t quite up to par with either her sister or the sister of her King.

In a beautiful overhead arc, Sansa slams Wylla to the ground, careful not to harm her, and smiles.

“I trust you’ll not hold this bout against me,” she says, and Wylla laughs.

“To lose to you is an honor, Princess Sansa,” the Manderly girl replies, and takes Sansa’s offered hand, “You’ve gotten much better.”

She has, Sansa knows. She’d been decent before- enough to hold herself up in a fight against someone who didn’t know the first thing about her powers, or someone who knew and had some training but no bending of her own, but now-

But now, Sansa has been taking lessons from the Manderly waterbending master for weeks, and, in addition to natural talent (which, really, is at least half of what waterbending is), she’s self-taught. Her sparring with Wylla throws her new training into an even higher gear- now that she has plenty of water to use and a sparring partner, the small progress she’d made in her own chambers, on her journey, and back home in Winterfell is outpaced by leaps and bounds.

Sansa isn’t the only one who’s been seeing improvement. Though there are few firebending or earthbending masters in White Harbor, there’s still enough of each that Kieran and Mya can learn by doing.

The former’s fire rises to the occasion, arcing gracefully through the air as he uses it for both steadfast offense and evasion tactics, both of which Sansa notes are inspired by Mya’s earthbending stances in addition to her own waterbending ones.

Mya, too, has incorporated firebending and waterbending stances into her earthbending. She doesn’t just stonewall, anymore, but moves with the punches, slipping out of the way as often as she meets force head-on.

The speed at which they’ve all improved is startling, but expected- the three of them are primarily self-taught, after all, at least in the past several years, and sparring with partners is one of the best ways to learn.

Sansa reports for her healing lessons with Wynafryd with soaked clothes (that she dries in a moment, holding the water above her head, but it’s the premise that matters) and a smile on her face.

-

Gendry learns rather quickly that no matter how small and frail she may look, Shireen is a  _ terrifying _ earthbender.

Her Seismic Sense is, plain and simple, practically cheating. He can’t do anything without her knowing about it, it seems.

Ser Davos watches them carefully from where he sits on the sidelines. The old waterbender makes sure to intervene whenever he thinks one of them runs the risk of getting hurt, but that doesn’t stop Gendry from panicking that he’s  _ fought two Princesses now. _

The other shock to his system is that the latter princess is his cousin, but that’s less nerve-wracking.

The most nerve-wracking thing is meeting King Stannis himself, who steps into the training room and nearly gets whacked in the head by an earth disc tossed by Shireen, who smiles sheepishly.

“Sorry, Father!” she calls, and sends the next earth disc at  _ Gendry’s _ head. Gendry raises his arms up like Shireen had taught him to earlier and breaks the disk apart before it reaches him.

“Ser Davos, I trust my daughter hasn’t been harmed?” King Stannis asks, and the old waterbender chuckles.

“Far from it, Your Grace. Gendry’s gotten a few knocks, but he wouldn’t be able to hit her even if he were bold enough to try.”

Gendry smiles at that. Normally, he’d be ashamed about losing to such a little girl, but Shireen is a force of nature unto herself. He’s frightened of her more than he is his royal uncle.

King Stannis seems pleased with this, at least enough to offer a smile and a nod to his daughter, who beams back at him.

“Learning how to teach, are we?” he asks, and Shireen nods, smile still bright. Gendry’s heard of her plans, and while he has no idea who the Avatar may be, he has no doubt she’s going to teach them earthbending some day.

-

Arya thwacks the Hound in the face with a stream of water to wake the man up.

They’re not far from Riverrun, now. They were going to change course when they’d heard her mother and brother and uncle were at the Twins, but Arya is tired and the Hound is antsy, so they’ll send her mother and brother a letter when they reach Riverrun. Perhaps her great-uncle or mother will ride back before her uncle’s wedding. She knows that her brother and uncle have to be there, but perhaps.

She announces herself at the gate, covered in filth, and watches the expression of shock (and faint awe, she supposes, from the fact that she’s survived this long) cross the faces of the guards. They investigate her, and she, in turn, tells them stories of her childhood.

“She’s the real thing, aye,” says the Hound, “I met her, her sister, and her father down in King’s Landing. Couldn’t believe it myself that the Brotherhood had her.”

“Very well. We will write to Lady Catelyn or your sister for conformation, Princess,” the guard states. Arya smiles, and walks through the gates of Riverrun, then pauses, eyebrows scrunched.

“My sister’s alive? He said she was missing the night he left King’s Landing,” she says. The guard who’s been assigned to escort them inside smiles at the girl.

“She made it safely to your brother’s men several weeks ago, my lady,” he replies. Arya claps a hand over her mouth and begins to cry in relief. It feels silly, but-

But the fact that her sister had the courage to  _ escape, _ like she had, not in a time of peace but in the midst of battle, and that she’d  _ won, _ that she’d made it back so close to home- it’s overwhelming, to say the least.

She’ll have to exchange stories with Sansa, once all of this is over (and now that she’s here, in Riverrun, it feels more and more like ‘over’ will be coming soon, that they’ll take back home). She feels that the both of them will likely have good ones to tell.

-

Catelyn can’t believe it, as far as Brynden can see.

First, a raven from her second child, her eldest daughter, from the Manderlys. Sansa, she learns, is alive. Second, a letter in Arya’s familiar (to her) handwriting starts the waterworks all over again.

Robb, ever the brave boy-king, doesn’t cry, bless him, but Talisa, sweet Talisa, does, sharing in Catelyn’s joyful tears.

It will be the last time they have such a chance, unfortunately.

For Catelyn Stark dies with a knife to her throat, and Talisa with one to her stomach. Brynden Tully, however, is miles and miles from the Twins, on his way to Riverrun to meet with his grand-niece, and bring the girl to her sister.

The Hound almost leaves with his bag of gold, but decides that extorting the Tullys for just a little more might be worth following Brynden to his own niece’s home in the Eyrie on their way to White Harbor.

The Blackfish knows that two little girls are the future of at least one, if not two Great Houses of Westeros.

They meet Lannisters on their way North, Lannisters and Freys who boast of their involvement in their family’s slaughter. And Arya- little Arya, who was sharp but bright when Brynden had seen her last before this terrible war- Arya raises her hands, and the soldiers rise with her.

“Bloodbender,” Brynden whispers to himself. He was a master waterbender- still is, by all means- but he’s never even attempted this most wretched of all bending arts. The fact that Arya has learned so puts a rotten taste in his mouth.

She’s talented at it, though- he’s heard of full-moon bloodbenders, but never ones who could bend without it. However, the Blackfish reminds himself to teach his grand-niece proper waterbending. As long as she knows the horror in it, he understands if she continues to hold bloodbending in her arsenal, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t teach her how to use proper form.

He teaches Arya in the moments between the light of early dawn and when they set off walking again. First, they start off simply, with Brynden correcting her stance whenever he sees faults in it, and passing streams of water to each other. Arya picks up on this quickly, so Brynden continues them on to the more complicated things, such as water-whips and waves and ice disks. Arya takes to all of this like a duck to water, which is quite fitting, now that he thinks of it. They’re making good time, and Brynden thinks they may make their way to his niece within a few weeks.

Arya sleeps more peacefully now, he knows. He’s begun to worry about her, about the violent little thing she’s becoming. He can tell that the Hound means well (as best as such a man can mean well), but he’s a violent man, and she’s a child. A powerful child, but impressionable nonetheless.

As such, he takes her under his wing. Someday, he decides, they’ll take down the Freys for what they’ve done (a coin burns hot in a girl’s pocket), but not today.

Not today.

-

Petyr Baelish curses, as he makes his way up to the Vale.

He doesn’t have any reason to stay, not really. He’s left the Tyrells with the necklace they’ve wanted (or, rather, he’s left it with the poor little girl they’d foisted on Tyrion, a Stormlands girl with some heft in the political sphere, apparently- he’d heard they’d considered Brienne of Tarth, but she is too strong-willed for them to trap her), had left them with their plan and their execution, as they’d agreed a long time ago, as he goes to Lysa- his second choice, time after time.

He’d been so  _ angry, _ when he’d heard of Catelyn’s death. And so, he goes back to his second choice (always his second choice, though he knows she doesn’t deserve it): Lysa.

Lysa, theoretically speaking, is still of childbearing age, now. Her astounding number of fertility problems tend to all point back to one thing: taking moon tea. However, moon tea does not do this. What does cause childbearing problems is the fact that her husband was notorious for his own problems of the sort. In short, half of Lysa’s emotional instability can be traced back to the fact that her husband was… not the youngest fish in the pond. Petyr feels sorry for her, in that regard, even though he doesn’t know the extent of the problem.

Therefore, when Petyr Baelish weds Lysa Tully, one thing he very much hadn’t expected when she’d agreed to this happens. She falls pregnant.

To the West of them, Brynden Tully, when he learns of this, primarily just feels surprise. He’s happy for Lysa, of course, as anyone would be.

Exactly nine and a half moon’s turns after her wedding night, Lysa Tully-Arryn will give birth to two robust children, a boy and a girl. She will weep with joy for them. She, like her sister before her, will put her children in higher regard than anyone else in her life, and therefore, when she learns that Petyr has harmed them- well, that involves bloodbending and a Moon Door, to say the least.

Either way, Silas (for Petyr’s father) and Minisa (for Lysa’s own mother) Baelish fill Lysa Tully-Arryn with more joy than she’s felt for years.

-

Margaery is head-over heels in love.

“You know, you could stop staring out the window, little sister,” Loras hums, as he makes himself comfortable in her chambers. Margaery laughs, a high, fake laugh that both her brother and grandmother roll their eyes at, and, once the door slides shut, they set to whispering.

“So, what have you learned about our escaped wolf?” her grandmother asks. Loras puffs up his chest and rearranges himself. Margaery continues daydreaming, and is only snapped out of it by Loras clearing his throat.

“I’ve  _ learned, _ ” he says, “That Lady Sansa had relatively minimal help in her escape from the city itself. She was met by a ship outside, and slipped past the blockade in the battle of Blackwater, that much is clear, but she had help from only one person, it seems, on the inside: a Northern bastard.”

The red wolf, Margaery thinks. So resourceful. She knows it’s unbecoming of her to be so… silly, for lack of a better word, about this, but. Well. Margaery is allowed to congratulate another woman’s ingenuity, and she’s allowed to find the story of it empowering, and she’s allowed to have a massive crush on the girl who escaped King’s Landing.

She knows her brother thinks it’s cute, if a little dangerous considering who her betrothed is (Margaery knows, from asking Tommen, who, frankly, she’d significantly prefer, that Joffrey is quite the little monster). She knows that her grandmother thinks it’s hilarious, and she tells stories of Daeron Targaryen, the prince who’d reached an agreement of mutual ignorance with her grandmother.

Margaery can never let Joffrey or any of the Lannisters know.

It doesn’t seem like it will be a problem, at least not for now. Sansa Stark is miles and miles away, and, now that she’s reached the relative safety of the North where, theoretically speaking, she could always hop on a ship with enough riches to live off for the rest of her life, and, if she spends them wisely, Starks could come from all the way across the world with armies, in generations to come.

Margaery, for some reason, doubts she’ll do such a thing. She gets the feeling that it’s in Sansa’s nature to, while evade a problem, not run from it.

Margaery herself will never run from her roadblocks, either. She’s an earthbender to the core, and a talented one to boot, and she knows perfectly well that by herself, she could probably wipe out every Lannister in King’s Landing in a matter of moments.

Tyrells, like many houses in the Reach descended from the Gardeners, produce fantastic earthbenders, and Margaery is one of the finest in recent years. Her training is kept quiet, so as not to alert other houses that the Tyrells’ prize daughter is a force of her own to be reckoned with, but solid.

Margaery, to her great pride, can say honestly that she’s the best earthbender she’s ever met.

Of course, one day, there will be an impressive duel between Margaery Tyrell and Shireen Baratheon to decide who among the two of them is the true earthbending mistress of Westeros (Gendry will to the side, for both girls will have beaten him soundly already). That duel, of course, will end in a draw, but both women will walk away feeling like the victor. This impressive display will, eventually, lead to the dawn of the pro-bending arena.

For now, Margaery Tyrell looks out the window, wishing, deep down, that she’ll at least be able to meet this red-headed wolf that enraptures her so. While she does, her brother and grandmother laugh at her for being the besotted fool that she is, but they do, indeed, give her their condolences.

Margaery doesn’t know about the poison plot. If she did, however, she’d likely approve. Even without Sansa Stark, it’s set to go off without a hitch.

Unless one considers the loss of Tyrion Lannister a hitch. Which, Olenna Tyrell does not. No matter how funny he can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely zero idea how I've been able to crank these chapters out, but even I'm impressed. It's been just about four days, and, as usual, I've finished the chapter after this one, too (but that won't be posted until 6 is done).
> 
> Also, next chapter has the introduction of a certain huge fluffy baby. her name is denna and i would die for her.


	5. the full moon rises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> introduction of... the baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously, though, I am exhausted

_ She runs through the snow, cold and wet on snow-white paws. The Mothers run ahead, tall and strong, and she feels happy, with a full meal in her belly. _

_ Now, she’s not- she’s hungry, and tired, and her paws are muddy and have splinters from the bad-den and she hurts all over and she’s so, so scared. Help, she thinks. She needs the Mothers, she needs her littermates, she needs someone to  _ help _ her. _

_ She raises a thick white muzzle to the sky. _

Sansa awakes to safety and a warm bed, unsure why she’d snapped awake as if from a nightmare.

There is the sound of howling on the wind.

Sansa jerks open her window with such force she’s worried she might shatter it. The howl returns, although it’s nothing like what she’d heard in the beginning of her dream- this is more whine than howl, and it tastes like fear on the back of her tongue.

She’s sliding out of her window, a scrap of food in hand, before she even knows what she’s doing. With the amount of water she has access to, it’s rather easy.

The howls have picked up again. Sansa is halfway down to the beach when she’s stopped by an arm around her hand.

“What are you doing?” Mya asks. The earthbender looks like she hasn’t slept well. Her short dark hair is a tangled mess, and the ends are singed.

An exhausted Kieran appears behind her.

There’s another howl-whine, sounding closer than ever. Sansa whips around, searching for the source.

“I have to find her,” she whispers to herself, and begins to run again. She hears Mya’s curse and Kieran’s irritated groan, but the earthbender and firebender follow her anyways.

Sansa skids down onto the beach. There, she sees the source of all this racket, and runs to it without a second thought.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers, sinking her fingers into dirty white fur. The cub whines, pulling back for a moment, before seemingly deciding that this strange creature is better than nothing. Sansa gives her the food she’s brought with her, and the cub scarfs it down gratefully.

Sansa tries to pick up the cub once. She’s thinner than she should be, Sansa somehow knows, but not dangerously so, and she’s still far too massive for Sansa to even consider lifting by herself.

Instead, she sets the cub down onto the sand again, and starts walking back towards New Castle. The cub follows her, all eagerness and wiggles, now, and Sansa is struck with how much this massive baby reminds her of Lady.

Lady had been sweet and demure, like Sansa had been back then, but she’d been a wolf at the core. This bear-dog cub is sweet, like Sansa is now, but anything but demure. Sansa may be polite and reserved now, but she will not compromise herself for anyone’s wishes anymore, and she doubts this ball of fluff would wish her to.

“Denna,” she whispers to herself, practically on instinct, “Your name is Denna.”

The cub yips. Sansa laughs, and looks to Mya as they approach the keep’s wall. Mya sighs, and calls to the guards.

“Two bastards, a princess, and a ball of white fluff would like to enter, please,” she calls up. One of the guards begins to laugh, but they allow them inside without complaint.

Sansa doesn’t even notice that it’s early morning, now- she’s too busy washing Denna off and getting the white-furred cub fed.

She certainly doesn’t notice Wynafryd approaching her, until the older waterbender begins to coo.

Denna shakes herself off, placing large, clean paws (though they are wet) on Sansa’s legs. Sansa laughs, and gives the little thing scritches atop her head.

This is the dawn of the last day before Sansa receives word of her mother and brother’s death, and her sister’s survival. Tomorrow evening, she will be crowned Queen in the North by the Manderlys, but this morning, Sansa watches with a wide smile on her face as Denna romps around New Castle, with a belly full of food and a clean pelt, and feels, finally, happy.

-

Jon Snow wakes to Sam’s fussing and the news that his brother is dead.

He doesn’t have any strength left to waste on crying, he knows. Still, it pricks at his chest deeper and harder than Ygritte’s arrows ever could.

The news that Sansa is alright is a balm, even though they’ve never been close, and the news that Arya is alive is even better.

And when Sam quietly tells him that Bran had gone beyond the Wall…

Jon’s breath hitches so hard it actually hurts, and he nearly begins crying all over again.

Sam and Gilly whisper stories of elements deep into the night, and Jon can see the pity in the eyes of both of them. Pity. From  _ Gilly. _ Jon feels pathetic.

“You know, it’s alright to cry,” Gilly whispers, once Sam has left for more firewood, “You’ve just learned that your brother’s dead. Doesn’t make sense not to, really.”

Jon smiles weakly up at her. She’s been through so much.

Gilly, in between her cupped hands, produces a flicker of flame. Jon’s eyes widen.

“The old man’s been teaching me,” she whispers sheepishly, “And I agree with him. You’ve got a fire in you too, Jon Snow.”

Jon stares at her wearily. Gilly walks back over to where Sam sleeps, sitting up in a chair.

“I’m a firebender,” she says, “Sam’s an earthbender. He’s too sweet to use it against anyone else. I think I am, too, which is why you need to hurry up and learn.”

Jon dips his head and holds back a laugh. Gilly is sweet, too sweet for the Wall.

Sam shifts in his sleep.

“We’ll protect him, won’t we, Gilly?” he asks. Gilly snorts.

“He protected me just fine beyond the Wall. Killed a White Walker, he did.”

Jon believes her.

“Well, the three of us will take shifts protecting each other, then. Nobody can stay awake all hours,” he replies, and Gilly nods, seemingly satisfied with this response.

Jon looks at his hands, and looks back at Gilly’s, which still hold fire within them.

He wonders if what she says is true- if he really can find a way to unlock such a thing.

Jon doesn’t notice that with the rise and fall of his breathing, the flame upon the candle rises and falls, too.

-

Arya wakes to a wet nose in her face, and familiar golden eyes watching her every movement.

“Nymeria!” she whispers in joy, and the now-massive wolf thumps her tail along the ground.

“You haven't forgotten me,” she mutters, and scratches the wolf behind the ears. Nymeria flicks her tail, and, like magic, the background sound of growling drops away.

There's a wolf pack behind her, Arya notes. They haven't touched the Hound or Uncle Brynden, thankfully, but she remembers quite well that wolves are wild animals, and that if not for Nymeria’s recognition, they might very well be dead by now.

Arya’s breath hitches as she remembers the news- word of her brother’s death. And Grey Wind’s.

“I'm so sorry I left you,” she whispers into the wolf’s fur, “They killed Lady, you know. They couldn't get you, so they took Lady instead. And now they've taken Grey Wind, too.”

Nymeria whines, like she understands. Arya gets to her feet. The wolf follows her.

The Hound and the Blackfish wake to a wolf pack and a little girl, understanding each other once again for the first time in years. Arya comes alive with Nymeria there, they both see- she's not calmer, but she is kinder, for wolves are creatures of family and even the most wild of creatures will have their moments of softness.

They walk, now, with a feeling of security, for Nymeria, once she's found her mistress, will not leave the girl’s side for anything. Arya won't leave Nymeria’s side, either. The girl and the wolf lay out a plan, for when they reach a ship.

“We’ll find Sansa,” Arya says, “And we’ll make sure she’s well-protected. And then, plans will change, because I am certain she has plans of her own.”

She's not wrong, of course- Arya's sister does indeed have her own plans. While, theoretically, the title of King in the North belongs to the young Avatar Bran or the even younger boy that is Rickon, very few (save the Umbers) know that either of them are alive. Therefore, Sansa Stark is default Queen in the North.

But first, before they get to her, the two men, the little girl, and the wolf have to pass through the Eyrie.

And Lysa Arryn is not in a good mood.

-

Across the Narrow Sea, a Blackfyre boy practices his firebending.

Aegon is a brilliant offensive bender, but lacks greatly when it comes to defensive tactics, a trait many in his family, no matter the branch, share, partially due to the misled conviction that they're genetically superior to everyone else.

People with Valyrian blood are not magic super-men, after all. In fact, Old Valyria was known for a dearth of benders, something corrected rather quickly via the few firebending families that married rather early on into the line.

Nevertheless, Aegon is an incredible firebender, but he does have a problem with defending himself, which he seems to refuse to do. No matter how many times his tutors exploit the holes in his meager defenses, or pin him after he refuses to evade, he never learns, only shrugging things off by arguing that he won’t have to defend himself like that- his people will flock to his defense when they see what he can do. Jon Connington sighs into his hands, cursing Rhaegar for having such a stubborn son.

Defensive firebending is something this boy has to learn, if he is to have any chance defending himself against usurpers and possibly his own aunt- a girl with no firebending of her own, but three dragons to her name.

Aegon, too, has heard tales of the Avatar. He’s keen to find them, wherever they are, and to teach them firebending, despite his own still needing work (so strange, it seems, that another legitimized Targaryen bastard is the one who truly will teach Bran firebending, even if it is one of the boy’s past lives). He’s not too bold as to assume that he’s a prophecy-filler, but he’s a prince, and princes are bold.

Jon Connington has his work cut out for him, he knows. Not in the least, he needs to make sure this boy doesn’t get himself killed before they reach Westeros.

Aegon returns to deck after his practice, eyes bright and ready to converse about something, anything. Jon finds it endearing, just a little bit, though the boy can be frustrating (more than frustrating) at times.

With a flick of the hand, candles are lit with violet fire that quickly flickers back to orange.

“Your grace,” Jon says, a thousand questions on the back of his tongue. All of a sudden, he can see Aegon’s face, and is reminded painfully just how much of a  _ child _ this boy is, no matter if he’d passed majority years ago.

“Yes, Jon?” Aegon replies, curiosity in his eyes.

“I have a letter,” he says in reply in lieu of anything else, “From the Golden Company.”

Aegon smiles, and nods, and reads the proffered message, Jon forgotten. The man sighs. It’s gotten harder, he thinks, to take care of this boy as he slowly becomes a King.

And he is a King now, Jon thinks. There’s a way his shoulders bunch and his brows furrow, a way he looks so much like Rhaegar that it hurts, that makes Jon realize just how Kingly the man he’s raised since he was a young boy has become. The firebender pours over his letters and his maps, but still manages to toss a smile at some random child on the street, or giggle with delight over falling stars in the sky.

_ ‘I’ve raised a good lad,’ _ Jon thinks to himself.

He has.

-

Margaery Tyrell learns of the Red Wedding not long before her own wedding. Something in the way her grandmother shifts in her chair when she hears the news doesn’t register until long after that happens.

By then, Joffrey is dead and cold, and has been for a few moments, now. She resists the urge to stare at her grandmother, or at Tyrion Lannister as he’s dragged away by guards.

She does, however, catch sight of the Stormlands girl that Tyrion had wedded, being hauled away by some man- the king’s fool, if she remembers correctly.

_ ‘Oh, Sansa,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘So smart of you to have left this place before all of this happened.’ _

Margaery feels uncomfortable with all of the eyes upon her. She knows, that after she’s mourned for a few weeks at least, she’s to wed little Tommen (not so little anymore, she thinks, as she checks him over, but if it was her choice, she’d wait more than a few years for him to be somewhat more steady on his feet).

Margaery Tyrell still wishes to be  _ the _ Queen, not just  _ a _ Queen, but she thinks, as she casts her mind North, that she wouldn’t mind giving such a title up in favor of getting as far away from this gods-damned city as she can possibly manage. It settles poorly on her skin, this does.

She wonders, now that Sansa Stark is Queen in the North (or will be soon), how she will deal with the treachery of Boltons and Greyjoys and Karstarks and Freys. Likely without compromisation, if she’s anything like her father or brother, but there’s still a possibility of things playing out differently than Margaery expects them to. She hopes the best for the red wolf, lifts her head, and continues on, wearing a mourner’s cloak around her shoulders and feigning tears for a lost love. She watches trial proceedings dispassionately, waiting for the other shoe to drop again and again.

While her attention is focused on the blame shunted to Tyrion Lannister, and not her grandmother, where it belongs, Margaery almost doesn’t notice the fact that Brienne of Tarth and her too old squire have fled the city, likely in search of the Stark girls.

Almost.

The roads that follow the two could be considered to be full of pitfalls because of heavy rain, but King’s Landing and the surrounding lands haven’t had a hard rain since before the wedding. Only Margaery, who smiles behind her mourner’s veil, knows the truth.

-

Brienne of Tarth knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

As a bender herself (Tarth is known for their waterbenders- it is an island, after all), she knows what an earthbender’s influence looks like, and the little pits that open up along the road only after they’ve passed certainly qualify. Podrick, despite being an airbender himself, doesn’t even notice, too focused on his duty, which Brienne thinks is rather admirable, but the poor boy does need to pay attention to his surroundings. No wonder he hasn’t gotten a knighthood yet.

She’s surprised at the pace they’ve been managing. They rest at a tavern one night, and are approached by a young baker boy, with a few secrets of his own.

Brienne leans forwards, eyes alight, and asks him to tell them so. And, like he’s been waiting for just them, the boy does so.

He’s friends with Arya Stark, he tells them, or he was, at least, and tells them that she’d been heading for Riverrun.

Brienne sits back, fingers under her chin.

“The Blackfish fled Riverrun shortly after that, likely with Arya in tow. Do they have any other family near?”

“Her Aunt rules the Eyrie,” Podrick replies, and Brienne nearly spits out her food.

“Indeed she does,” the waterbender croaks, like she hadn’t been expecting such a thing (and, in truth, she hadn’t been- recent history has never been her strongest point, unfortunately).

“I heard she’s had twins. Good for her,” Pod says lightly. Brienne nods. She’s heard about the woman’s many issues in childbearing, and her fragile mental health, and she hopes that having someone to dote over might just help her settle.

They begin to head north-west with just a smidgeon of hope restored. It won’t be long before they meet up with two men, a girl, and a wolf, and become one long line all massing towards the Eyrie, but for now, the waterbender and the airbender push their horses harder and harder and harder, to make up for lost time.

They move faster than they would have, had they all begun just a little bit later. Those north of the Wall have not marched on it just yet, and the trial down South is nowhere near done. But Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne meet Sandor Clegane, Ser Brynden Tully, Arya Stark, and Nymeria long before they ever reach their destination.

Unlike they might have, once upon a time, Brynden recognizes Brienne’s name, and Brienne his. They face the Vale together, three waterbenders, an airbender, and a massive wolf (and the Hound).

Brienne will point back to this decision of unity as her turning point. Arya will point back earlier, but her story is darker and bloodier than the Lady Knight’s will ever be.

-

The new Queen in the North makes certain that her first decision is to meet with King Stannis of the South. Not with any of his representatives, but rather face-to-face, in White Harbor.

King Stannis obliges, as Queen Sansa (as the Manderlys refuse to call her anything else) knew he would. She arranges herself like she feels she should- the opposite, entirely, of how she’d been in King’s Landing, tall and strong instead of weak and curled into herself.

She keeps her fur-lined grey coat, and whistles for Denna to follow her closely. The bear-dog is growing slowly, but steadily, sort of like a human toddler, Sansa decides. She’ll be massive, one day, and big enough to ride before long.

Stannis enters New Castle’s Great Hall with a confident stride and the look of a man who’s assured of his own strength.

The waterbender stares at this man dispassionately, and takes her own seat. She cuts off the man’s titles with a wave of her hand.

“My apologies, but we don’t have the time, Your Grace,” she hums, “Although, I should thank you- the Battle of Blackwater gave me the cover I needed to escape, after all.”

Stannis jolts at that, as does Davos.

_ ‘Is it just me,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘Or does this King of the South look rather guilty?’ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter five is HERE and I am TIRED


	6. blood calls to blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shireen is a tiny angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am... still... so... tired...

Stannis Baratheon does not have a certain Gendry Waters with him when he approaches the Queen in the North. This reasoning is rather straightforward.

Gendry is back in King’s Landing by now, after rowing for days on end.

This, however, is not because of some plot to sacrifice the boy- Stannis isn’t a cold-hearted monster, after all, and he’s always had a soft spot for his daughter. And his daughter, who has taught this boy as much earthbending as she’s been able to (and that is quite a bit, considering the girl’s natural talent), is fond of her cousin.

Therefore, Gendry is thrown in the cells below Dragonstone, though not without comfort, and is given a few suggestions.

He escapes that very night, bars bent like nothing, and ‘flees’ to King’s Landing. He has a good head on his shoulders, and will keep it down for as long as he can, watching and listening, until he finds anything of value.

The first shred of information that he gathers that’s of moderate importance is that, like himself and Princess Shireen, Lady Margaery Tyrell is an earthbender, and a powerful one at that.

He watches her from the corner of his eye as he works. It’s not uncommon for her to visit places like the Street of Steel, but he’s been on alert ever since he’d learned of her power- like recognizes like, after all, and Gendry is afraid to be discovered, like any reasonable person would.

This, however, does not stop the Lady Margaery from taking an interest.

She’s a sharp girl, unfortunately, which means that Gendry’s been recruited into smithing Tyrell armors and judging the qualities of various metals (which isn’t so unfortunate, but Gendry doesn’t like all the attention). Fortunately for Gendry, however, this means he’s under the Tyrell family’s protection, which also means that the new king, Tommen, can’t get after him (though he doesn’t think he’ll try).

The biggest difference, it seems, is made by the simple fact that Margaery catches him manipulating the metal of one of his ingots one morning when she visits him in the forge, and demands that he teaches her.

Gendry narrows his eyes. There’s something about her that feels familiar, in a way. Perhaps it’s the undercurrent of ruthlessness that hides behind her eyes, perhaps it’s the regal bearing, but she reminds him of Arya.

So, Gendry sets down his tools, and begins to teach her a skill he’s only barely begun to develop himself.

-

Shireen finds Mya Stone sitting in a windowsill, sharpening a blade.

She’s not in the Great Hall beside her Queen’s side, which Shireen doesn’t understand until Mya’s hand jerks out and a ball of white fluff is seized by the little thing’s neck. Or, well, not so little. It’s clearly a baby, and it’s already the size of or larger than the average hunting hound, and most likely quite a bit heavier.

Mya Stone turns to Princess Shireen with a calm, flat look in her eye, like this is standard procedure.

“I hear you’re my cousin?” the princess asks hopefully. Mya tilts her head to the side.

“As far as I’m aware, I am, yes. I don’t remember my father particularly well, though,” she hums. Just like that, there’s a spark of interest in her eyes.

“So that makes you Gendry and Edric’s half-sister,” Shireen continues. Mya scrunches up her nose at the first name, but her eyes go wide at the second.

“Edric? I haven’t heard from him in  _ moons. _ Did you see him?” she asks. There’s something in her voice- it’s genuine concern.

Shireen’s heard the boy’s bolted, before the war at that, under orders from their Uncle Renly, before he'd died. She doesn't know where too, though, and makes sure her cousin knows this as well.

Mya nods, but the slump of relief in her shoulders is visible, and it becomes even more so when her fire-haired Queen strolls back through the doors. Shireen watches in amazement as Queen Sansa sighs tiredly, removes her crown, and opens up her arms.

The fluff ball Shireen had nearly been bowled over by earlier happily jumps into the Queen’s arms, wriggling furiously. Sansa laughs. Shireen stares.

“I hope you haven't been scaring her,” Queen Sansa says to Mya, who laughs.

“I don't think Mya could scare me with anything. Not even stories about King Robert’s nature!”

“You shouldn't be hearing those things,” Sansa says, concern in her eyes, “You're just a child.”

Looking up at the girl who can't be more than three or so years her senior, Shireen says what she's been waiting to say  _ all day. _

“Well you're just a teenager!”

Queen Sansa, Mya, and the young guard that Shireen assumes must be Sansa’s personal sworn sword, from how he's been following the Queen around, take a moment to process that.

Then, in unison, they all burst out laughing.

-

Queen Sansa stares down King Stannis. King Stannis stares down Queen Sansa.

This goes on for several moments.

During that time, in the back of her head, Sansa wonders if it feels odd for the man, to have to call a girl barely older than his own daughter a Queen, if not his Queen, if only for the sake of politeness.

If is Stannis, expectedly, who breaks the silence first.

“I have received word of a wildling army amassing North of the Wall,” he says.

“As have I,” Sansa replies dispassionately.

“I was,” he says, and the next part looks to be through gritted teeth, “of the opinion that we could perhaps… join forces, if you choose to bend the knee.”

“My brother went South originally to name you King, you know,” Sansa says, which seems to take Stannis just a bit by surprise.

“And then he usurped my crown and named himself King in the North.”

“Yes, in the North, not the South. You forget, King Stannis, that the North was an independent entity for thousands of years, and only barely incorporated for three hundred. How do I know that you will not be another Southerner who pushes their will and their gods upon the North, and takes our men, and gives nothing of worth in return?”

The woman in red just behind King Stannis looks to pipe up, but Sansa raises her hand. She's not finished.

“I would be a fool to not at least consider the offer,” she admits reluctantly, “We do need more forces to take back the North from the Boltons and the Lannisters, and you seem like an honest man. But the North regaining independence is not  _ usurpation _ , it never has been, and it never will be.”

Sansa quiets, after that. Stannis does, too.

“It seems we're both monarchs with kingdoms in revolt,” he offers, and Sansa nods, “And I would be… willing to discuss terms  _ after _ the most dire needs have been met. For the moment, now, we have a common goal.”

She blinks. It's more leveled and fair than she'd been told to expect him to be- while she'd heard of his no-nonsense judgement, and his iron will, she has also heard of his steadfast belief that he and only he can lead the Seven Kingdoms.

Something has shaken him, recently. Something big, big enough that a man convinced that he is a savior of the world would back down from an argument without much fuss.

She thinks, perhaps, that it's something his daughter has said. She seems like a bright one, after all.

“I agree,” she says, “I believe terms would be best discussed after we’ve helped each other. If your goal is incompatible with Six Kingdoms, it would do you some good for the North to see you helping.”

_ ‘I am not a true Queen in the North,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘I cannot decide this for you. I am crowned because my brother has died, as you are, but I have not been crowned by the whole North, for the North is under the control of the Boltons and the Lannisters, not us Starks.’ _

Stannis seems to find this agreeable enough, and Ser Davos smiles encouragingly at him. Sansa watches and listens, while pretending to call over Lord Manderly for her own discussion, while in reality reading the lips of the King and his Hand (who is missing half of one of his own hands).

“Your grace, I worry you may have given up too much of our own position,” Lord Manderly whispers. Kieran, who’s never more than a few steps or a shout away from his Queen these days, nods in assent.

“So has he,” she replies, “We both have kingdoms in open rebellion. If I am given honesty, I will give it in return.”

Lord Manderly is somewhat appeased by this, but there’s a crease in his brow, from worry.

“Just be cautious, my Queen,” he replies, and Sansa nods, an ice blade materializing in her fingers.

“Don’t worry, Lord Manderly,” she hums, blue eyes alight like the glow of healing water, “I will be.”

-

Margaery Tyrell knows when she should protest, when she should manipulate, and when she should stay silent.

Her newest pet project, the Baratheon metalbender bastard, certainly does not.

Margaery has to keep, a few times, from strangling the poor boy. It’s not his fault, of course: he’s not responsible for his father’s wandering proclivities, but someone should have remembered to teach him to keep his mouth shut.

And so, because nobody else is going to do it, Margaery Tyrell sits the boy down for lessons on how to stay unnoticed or be noticed for what you wish to be noticed for. Gendry takes all of this to heart.

Unfortunately, Loras doesn’t, because the poor boy is a full match for their shared late Renly. Loras forgets that Margaery is doing all of this to keep this boy, barely a man, alive.

It doesn’t help that Gendry is about as far from Loras as Loras was from Renly, with the main difference being that he’s a far more muscular young man. In short, just about every single time Loras catches sight of the smith, he looks like he’s seen a ghost.

Later, after Margaery’s first week of teaching Gendry how to act like a politician (she knows quite well that Stannis and Shireen aren’t likely to, well, continue on the line, so to speak, unless Shireen gets lucky and hasn’t inherited her mother’s bad luck), she walks in to Loras’s room, to find him curled up into himself, and trying to hold back tears.

Margaery knows perfectly well how men try to keep themselves from feeling things. She’s of the opinion that it’s idiotic to show no emotion but anger, that it poisons little boys into becoming terrible men.

And so, she holds her brother while he cries, and, once he cannot find it in himself to cry any longer, he tells her of what he and Brienne of Tarth had spoken of, before she’d left the capital.

As she hears the story, Margaery’s fists clench in anger. Bending is not a coward’s tool- it requires skill. Assassination only requires money. Blood magic, however? Blood magic is a sign of true weakness and desperation.

And kinslaying is the worst of them all.

“You need to protect him, Margaery,” he whispers, “We both know Tommen shares no blood with Renly, and while Shireen may be a good Queen someday, her father can’t be trusted. Protect him.”

Margaery will.

This boy, however, knows more than he lets on. Gendry Waters, of the house Baratheon, has traveled quite a bit, and once she begins to poke at him- well, he’s rather close-lipped for a time, but when Loras asks, and tells him exactly why, the young man’s sense of honor seems to be prodded.

It is then, when he opens up to them- that the Princess Shireen had sent him to go looking and listening for any sign of the Avatar or particularly powerful benders.

Loras and Margaery both nod along to this information. The fact that he reports to Shireen, and not to Stannis, does not surprise them.

What does surprise them, however, is the fact that this same boy is the most recent person they’ve met that’s seen a Stark-  _ any _ Stark. Apparently, this Baratheon bastard was good friends with Princess Arya.

And, though he clearly has quite the few tidbits about her, the second either Margaery or Loras try to pry at him for them, he shuts up like a clam. In fact, he just about refuses to talk to either of them for several days in a row.

That’s a setback, sure, but Margaery knows quite well how to deal with setbacks. And so, the lovely young rose tells the Stag of the little red wolf and her daring escape.

And yet, Gendry, ever loyal to his lady, like a true knight, stays silent.

Margaery, if she is to be honest, is quite impressed.

-

Brienne of Tarth finds that traveling with two other waterbenders is quite useful for trading skills.

The Blackfish and young Arya are both persistence and precision based fighters, clearly used to working with less water than Brienne tends to have at her disposal. And therefore, when Brienne knocks the Blackfish right on his ass with a wave ten times his height, none are surprised.

Brienne’s always been good at the warrior’s side of waterbending. She’s a poor healer by a healer’s standards, for sure, but she can do it when pressed. However, as an islander, Brienne has always been surrounded by a large quantity of water, and when it is available, one only has to practice to control it.

And Brienne has been practicing her entire life.

The Blackfish is an equal opportunist. While he’s no better healer than Brienne is, he is excellent with ice projectiles and water-whips.

Arya, though. Arya is a precision  _ master. _ She throws ice spikes like she was born to do it, and uses the element like an extra appendage.

She’s also, to date, the only bloodbender that Brienne has  _ ever _ met.

Brienne is certain that's a good thing. If all bloodbenders are as murderous in intent as the princess is, she'd rather not meet another one.

The wolf, Nymeria, while moderately aggressive, warms up to Brienne and Podrick quickly enough, the former sooner than the latter, even though Oathkeeper’s lion-headed pommel does earn some distaste.

Brienne decides that once they have the time to care about such things, she'll get it changed into a wolf’s head. It may only be half of Ice, but it can still serve its purpose.

(And maybe, Brienne thinks, if they can all get a hold of the other half, perhaps Ice can be forged again).

On a more waterbending oriented note, Arya picks up the lessons Brienne has to offer rather quickly. She may be small, but as the water she calls upon grows and grows, she grows stronger and stronger.

Brienne finds this all a rather rewarding experience, teaching someone. Maybe, once all of this fighting is done, if she ever returns to Tarth, she'll instruct her own heirs in waterbending and the art of the sword.

(She will.)

-

“From what I’ve heard, you’re quite the young man,” the whiskered old waterbender offers. Kieran ducks his head amicably, but does not take his attention off his Queen.

“It was Her Grace that did all the hard work, truly- I just smuggled in a few scrolls and offered my sympathies,” he says, and it’s the truth. He’s a guard, and now a friend- his Queen is the hero of her own story.

“Still, it must be hard-”

“It isn’t,” Kieran replies immediately, keeping pace with Queen Sansa as they both make their way out. He feels bad just as quickly- Ser Davos seems nice enough, and genuinely concerned, rather than a man trolling for information from his King. He veers away from the woman in red, and looks to his King like a man who genuinely believes.

Kieran softens, then, shoulders slumping, but continues to follow Her Grace as she leaves the Great Hall.

She seems to be fond of little Princess Shireen, at least, a feeling Kieran absolutely sympathizes with. The princess is a sweet little thing, with a sharp mind and a wide smile, and he knows that they may become friends, some day.

“Kier,” Mya says quietly, and Kieran cocks his head to the side, golden eyes meeting clear blue.

“Yes, Mya?”

“What do you think has happened to her sister, after all this time?”

Kieran blinks. If he’s to be honest, be doesn’t know. Arya Stark could be a completely different girl now than the one that used to roam the halls of Winterfell.

“Hopefully nothing too terrible,” he says, instead of the possibilities that swirl through his brain. Mya sighs, and nods, reading what he hasn’t said as easily as what he has.

They keep quiet, the both of them. They’re shadows behind the Queen, quiet and careful and oh-so-deadly. Mya has softened, he thinks, towards the newcomers, but that’s to be expected- they’re  _ her blood _ , she has every right to feel, if not conflicted, a little warmer than Kieran does.

Sansa leads them to their own little meeting room shortly after this.

“Alright, what have you figured out? I can tell you have something, the both of you.”

Kieran steps forwards first.

“I don’t doubt that the King in the South is honest in his intent- from what I’ve learned of him, he is an honest man. But do not trust his red priestess, under  _ any _ circumstances. Even his own men fear her and shy away from her, and something about her feels… just wrong, if I’m to be honest.”

“I agree,” Lord Manderly says, “Though you shouldn’t trust Stannis so quickly, either. As far as you know, anything you might say to him will make it back to her.”

Queen Sansa nods, and grits her teeth.

“I do believe,” she says, voice measured, “It’s time to send word to my half-brother.”

-

A raven sets down in the morning light, black feathers stark against the snow and light of the dawn.

It caws at Sam and Maester Aemon insistently, like it’s waiting not only for the removal of the paper around its leg, but also food. Definitely the latter, Sam is sure of it.

His eyes flicker over the elegant, tiny handwriting, fitting so much into a space that doesn’t have room for such things.

“Jon!” he shouts, startling the Maester and half the men at Castle Black, “ _ JON!” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> melisandre scares me. so does show stannis. it is for the same reason.


	7. a beast when backed into the corner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pretty sure this is the first chapter with a dany pov actually

Jon paces upon the Wall.

He’s heard from Sam that once Stannis gets more men, he’ll be on his way, that Sansa has sent a few as well. The latter is a great comfort, indeed. He’s never been particularly close to the elder of his two half-sisters, but men are men are men, and they need men.

Another other shred of information that Sam had told him concerns a question she’d sent, a query about if any Northern lords had been sent to the Wall, and if so, whom. He hadn’t known, but he trusts Sam to be able to figure such a thing out without much trouble.

The second to last two are a warning, about Melisandre and how if there were any executions while she was at the wall (not, necessarily, when Stannis is at the wall, they’re very likely to be burnings.

Jon just hopes they’ll survive long enough for Stannis to arrive. He thinks that’s optimistic of him (it is not. Jon Snow does not know the meaning of the word optimism, and has not known for several years).

He wonders if he’ll ever see Bran again, from where he’s gone, beyond the Wall.

Not for a long time, at least- he’s sure of it.

The very last of the pieces of information that Sansa has sent, according to Sam and his own eyes, is another question, a deeper pry into something Sam had written.

Sansa Stark wants to know exactly what Sam means by “White Walkers have returned”.

-

Arya arrives at the Eyrie on a cold, bitter, windless day, when mist hangs heavy over the castle. Brienne, Brynden, Sandor, Podrick, and Nymeria all stand by her side. In a few months, she will leave again.

Something’s wrong, she can feel that much. She shivers in the wind.

When they announce her and her uncle to the guards, she doesn’t lift her head, but instead continues on, pressing through the windchill onwards and upwards as they head towards the doors of the Eyrie.

It’s when she sees a very familiar Petyr Baelish alongside her aunt, that she understands just why she feels so unsettled.

She’s never trusted Littlefinger, and she never will, but she appreciated how he hadn’t blown her cover, back at Harrenhal, and she tells him as such. He offers a smile, and claims that his reason is that he’d loved her aunt, but Arya-

Arya knows, deep down, that he doesn’t like having her around. He doesn’t like Lysa’s children, either, no matter if they’re his. Arya likes the babies, though- perhaps it’s because they’re her cousins, perhaps it’s because they’ve known nothing but wartime in their short lives.

She knows they’re the pups of the pack, and she’ll protect them with her life if she must.

Lysa coddles her red-headed children- not unsurprisingly, as they are babies, and do require such things. She pays less and less attention to her oldest son, who gravitates to Arya like a magnet. She watches carefully, in the corner of her eye, and insures that he’s given food she can be sure of, instead of the food that feels wrong. Nymeria growls at the cook the first time. They find poison in the food.

Robert Arryn is a talented enough young airbender, surprisingly powerful for his weak stature. Podrick takes it upon himself to teach the boy- they’re both poor ground-fighters with an aerial expertise, after all.

Once he’s out of his mother’s coddling grip, he grows surprisingly quickly, and once Arya, Brienne, Podrick, and Brynden descend upon him, that growth turns into proper instruction.

Arya barely notices Petyr Baelish’s worried glances, the way he grips his glider-staff tightly whenever he sees Arya, now. She does know that no matter what the man says, he cannot be trusted, under any circumstances.

Nymeria can be seen more often now with a falcon or raven perched upon her shoulders. She’s tamed down significantly since returning to Arya’s side. Her pack howls along the Vale, now, close enough to matter. A few have grown closer, following Sandor around like they’ve stuck to him. The Hound, in turn, has grown softer, too, feeding these gentler wolves when they come closer, scratching their heads fondly, and allowing them to stay by his side, in the warmth of the kennels or in the rooms he’s been given, near the edges of the Eyrie.

The coin, however, still burns hot in Arya’s pocket.

She doesn’t know why she awakes, one full moon night, and heads to the nursery, where Silas and Minisa sleep peacefully, unbeknownst to the danger.

She stands guard, that night, even when the real guards leave, and her Aunt Lysa enters. She helps Lysa take them to the Great Hall, helps her soothe them to sleep while they stare out the windows.

Petyr Baelish appears from the shadows, like a dream, once Arya begins to head back to her rooms, in an attempt to fall asleep again. Lysa takes both her children gracefully.

Arya turns back, on the tips of her toes, and begins to run when Petyr Baelish begins to choke her aunt to death.

He won’t get to.

Silas and Minisa wail, when she twists the blood in their little bodies to set them down gently, but they’ll live.

Water pours from everywhere it can- from the mist outside, from plants, from pitchers- as Arya runs forwards.

Petyr raises a hand. Arya can’t breathe, but she can raise her own, can make Littlefinger back away, stiff-legged, until his feet catch on the edge of the Moon Door and he falls, falls, falls.

Arya doesn’t notice the glider in his hand. What she does notice, is that on this full moon right, bloodbending doesn’t sit oddly in her stomach. It feels soft, and pliable, and worthy. Arya is sick that she’s  _ not _ sick to her stomach.

The coin in her pocket burns more brightly than ever.

Now, with a dead Lord on her hands, and facing her grieving-but-angry Aunt, who’s finally snapped out of her husband’s control- now, Arya listens.

She’s on a ship for Braavos, out of Gulltown, the morning after next.

_ ‘You’re running,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘Why are you?’ _

She knows.

Arya Stark is a killer, now. If she’s going to be, she might as well get some training out of it.

-

Denna is larger now than Lady was, when she’d died.

The realization is like a slap to the face, Sansa finds. The white, fluffy little thing grows slowly, but surely. It’s been near a year, now, and her tiny snow bear-dog (Wylla and Wynafryd have taken to calling her a polar bear dog, which Sansa agrees has a much finer ring to it) is nearly as tall as Sansa’s chest when she sits, and taller still if she stands on her back legs. Another year or so, and the massive baby may be large enough to ride.

Denna doesn’t care, of course. She’s excited no matter what happens, and she’s even more so when a massive grey-and-white wolf arrives at the gate, along with the tallest woman that Sansa’s ever seen, her uncle Brynden, and a young man who seems perpetually happy, an odd emotion to express during wartime.

According to the tall woman- Brienne of Tarth, her name is- her sister and the Hound had been traveling with them, but Arya had gone missing after a fight with Petyr Baelish in the Eyrie, and the Hound had broken off shortly after that.

It reminds Sansa of Stannis, just a little bit. He and his Hand are off in Braavos, somewhere, having left Shireen behind with her cousin and the Queen in the North for safekeeping. Brienne jolts at that.

“Arya had mentioned Braavos,” she says, and Brynden, eyes wide, continues for her.

“She’d mentioned the Faceless Men specifically. Perhaps King Stannis could find her there, bring her home.”

Sansa shakes her head.

“We can’t get word to him in time, I’m afraid. He’s gone for an audience with the Iron Bank, to hire sellswords. If we’re all lucky, we should be able to assist the Night’s Watch with extra men to stop their wildling problem soon enough.”

Sansa doesn’t miss how Brienne’s lip curls and her shoulders round at the name Stannis- she remembers how the woman was first sworn to Renly.

But she’ll hold her tongue, at least for the time being- that much, Sansa knows.

“Once this is done,” she mutters to herself, “I’ll have them look for her.”

She won’t have to.

For now, her guard fold around her like a cloak. Kieran’s warm golden eyes go cold and flat some days, but he still protects her like his own life depends on it, and now that Shireen has joined their little group, her firebird (for that’s what he is, deep down, she thinks) protects the youngest earthbender as well.

Her antlered doe, the lady-stag, closes off as well, the bags under her bright blue eyes growing ever darker as the days drag on. She, too, has accepted Shireen, though hers is far more rooted in their blood relation than anything else.

Sansa has stopped calling herself Queen in the North, anymore. It’s a title given, earned, not one she will simply have. She is Lady Stark by rights, though, and she will continue calling herself such.

Lady Stark investigates everything she can in White Harbor as they prepare to take back the North from the Boltons.

The most interesting, of course, is the Alchemist’s Guild, and what they’ve found. They’ve not been able to turn anything into gold, unfortunately, but they have found a curious thing- a mixture of saltpeter (a byproduct of animal waste), charcoal, and sulfur, that, while it does not burn as brightly as wildfire, is far more concussive in the nature of its blast, and far more  _ stable _ in transport.

Likely, it won’t be ready for combat for years to come, but it’s only one of the fascinating things at White Harbor that give Sansa hope for the future.

Most notably among them is a press, of sorts, with a metal engraving on one part. The ink is placed onto it with a series of blotters, of a kind, and the crank is lowered. When one removes the paper from the engraving, the result is an easy sheet of paper covered in printed writing.

According to the makers of the press, they’ve had such a thing for centuries, now- since the Conquest, at least- but the Targaryens have never been fond of such technological achievements, and many a lord (aside from the lords of the North, who know their loyalty is safe) fears that the raised literacy of the peasantry would destabilize their political position.

A light flickers on in Sansa’s head as she studies the press.

“Who else,” she asks, voice careful and measured, “Has moved North because of these concerns?”

In the end, she amasses well over a dozen inventing families, each with their own talents. Some are already employed by the Manderlys, including a family whose engine- a curious thing that runs off of  _ steam, _ of all materials.

They all raise the same concerns- that the Targaryens, afraid of what these could do to their dragons, or to the existing balance of power, had banned them or banished them, or local lords had done the same before the red dragons had a chance. Or, fearing the fates that their neighbors had already faced, they’d turned tail and run north (or, according to some of the families, South or East- Dorne and Essos were all too happy to bring inventors into the fold, too).

Sansa knows that in a traditional environment, such ingenuity in the smallfolk would be stifled. But in a city, the merchant class thrives above all else, it seems.

Sansa decides something, that day- that she will champion such innovation, when she takes back the North from the Boltons. There is no reason for her not to, aside from the nearing winter, and even then, it can easily be excused- if her people are inspired to create, perhaps there will be something for the winter.

She and Kieran find that working a steam engine in tandem is quite efficient, but a poor use of a firebender and waterbender’s time when simple fire and water works just as well.

The North’s industrialization will take a long, long time, but it will happen. Perhaps not in her lifetime, but it will still happen.

Sansa is sure of it.

-

Margaery knows that her mother-by-law to be  _ hates _ her.

Cersei has a flickering light behind her eyes that can only register as such. She’s quite stupid, Margaery knows, despite how much she desperately wants to believe in her own intelligence.

Everyone knows that her three children aren’t her husbands, but her twin’s. Margaery wonders what possessed the woman to not at least lay with a man that looked like her husband- if she had, this whole fool war would never have happened.

She supposes it was the narcissism, rather than any actual planning.

There is one decent thing that’s come out of this- Tommen. Tommen is a sweet, sweet boy, if not particularly attractive yet (Margaery really doesn’t find barely pubescent boys such). She may use him as a stepping stone, but she’ll protect him if need be.

Margaery takes a closer look at the Queen Mother, who gathers herself to glare back at Margaery.

She could have been better, once, Margaery decides. Perhaps if her husband had not been a cruel, distant beast of a man, perhaps if she’d been allowed more freedom instead of being a caged lion cub all her life.

And yet, that hasn’t happened, and now, Cersei sits, clutching her wine, bitter and angry, so bitter and angry that she’d let her own brother father her children for the sake of her pride.

Margaery feels just a little bit of bile rise in her throat at the thought.

Once again, she wishes, in her heart of hearts, to be far away from here.

At least, with Tywin Lannister’s narrowed eyes watching her every move, she’s protected from the King’s mother at the moment.

When she can, she escapes to the forge, with Loras and a few handmaidens at her side, to trade lessons for lessons and smiles for smiles. The little stag has grown, sure enough, and the faint differences from Renly are enough to stop Loras from crying anew.

Gendry is their man now, or as close as they can get to such. They know if, given the chance to run back to Lady Stark the younger, he would in a heartbeat, but otherwise, he’s theirs.

Margaery decides that she can live with this arrangement, can live with a boy who’s soft for a girl that’s been missing for long enough that even the capital’s gotten word of her.

Margaery hopes that a parley will be called, at least eventually. She’d like to at least catch sight of the women who will carry this war.

-

Speaking of women of war- across the Narrow Sea, a young woman sits cross-legged atop a pillow, and stares, hard-eyed, at her closest compatriots.

Ser Barristan blinks back at her, just as confused, as do Missandei and Grey Worm, who likely simply don’t know who the hell she’s talking about. Ser Jorah shifts awkwardly, but otherwise is calm. Daario shrugs and leans back in his chair.

“My nephew,” she says, which results in a few ‘oohs’ from the three who hadn’t known of what she was talking about, and nothing from the two that had.

“Aegon is dead, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan replies, eventually. Ser Jorah nods.

Daenerys slams the paper she’s holding down onto her leg, and stares at them incredulously.

“Don’t you think  _ I know that?” _ she hisses, “Viserys told me as soon as I was old enough to understand what death meant.”

“Then it is not your nephew,” Missandei cuts in. Daenerys shakes her head.

“Normally,” she says, “I would agree. But this letter does not come from my nephew- it comes from Lord Jon Connington, my eldest brother’s closest friend. If anyone would know his son, would keep him safe for years, it would be Connington.”

_ ‘If Jon Connington didn’t see to the boy’s escape himself, though, there’s no way to know they haven’t replaced him with a fake,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘And it’s not like any individual Valyrian looks that much different from another- there’s quite the possibility that it could be just some random child with the right looks to him.’ _

She does not share this with her entourage, does not share her suspicions, but- she looks to Ser Barristan, and sees it in him, the doubt that shakes her, too. They do not trust this Aegon, they do not trust that he is true, but she has no doubt that the boy believes he’s such, and she’ll try to end this peacefully, to the best of her ability.

After all, if this boy is truly her nephew, then the crown is his by right. She will grit her teeth, and demand a rebuilt Summerhall, or fly back to Mereen, but blood is blood, and he is her nephew.

She will protect him.

-

Mya and Shireen grow closer than ever, in her father’s absence. Shireen knows that her father had hated the idea of leaving her here, with possible enemies (the Stark loyalists) and a definite enemy (Brienne of Tarth, a Renly loyalist). But Shireen is happy, here, in a land filled with fierce women and no-nonsense warriors, all happy to teach the young doe who has befriended their Queen (or Lady of the North, as her mother calls Queen Sansa, and as Queen Sansa calls herself, insisting that she will only take the royal title now if she’s crowned by most of her vassals, not just the Manderlys).

Shireen won’t grow much taller, she knows, but she does grow stronger, now that she’s no longer on Dragonstone. Her mother is less frail, too- with good meals in her belly and a warm bed to sleep in, at night, Queen Selyse Baratheon fills out just a little bit more.

Shireen, she finds, when she has to get her clothing altered to fit her new shoulders, fills out much more. Mya is a  _ brutal  _ teacher. She’d thought Gendry could be tough, at times, but his older half-sister is, while less talented than Shireen is, certainly more skilled, and can throw far more weight behind her earthbending than the little slip of a princess can. Shireen’s gained muscle like magic, and she’s sore most days. Her mother certainly doesn’t approve, but Shireen isn’t helpless without her bending anymore, which  _ Shireen _ very much approves of.

Something, however, feels wrong, off, when she wakes up in the middle of the night, a full moon high above her head. It’s not until she clears her eyes a few times when she sees the chaos in the courtyard, and jumps into action without a second thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same deal, 8's not out until 9 is done.


	8. keep your options open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> minor transphobia tw bc ramsay is a dick. this is not tolerated by anyone else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a test tomorrow and I wrote this instead. Oh well.

Kieran’s bleariness is shaken away in a heartbeat when he sees the banners (or, rather, banner, singular).

White and red and a black so black it looks blue against the other colors is unmistakable.

He’s out of bed in a split second, racing to his Queen’s side. This, of course, is made all the more difficult by the fact that Queen Sansa has placed herself in the middle of the fighting, back-to-back with Lady Wylla, who screams like a madwoman and lashes out with her water-whips.

The one thought blaring through Kieran’s head like the scream of some dying creature is the fact that House Bolton really were stupid enough to try to take a castle packed with waterbenders of varying skill on the full moon, of all nights.

Queen Sansa shoves him towards Princess Shireen, and Kieran takes the hint in stride, burning anyone wearing a Bolton symbol down to nothing. The battle, if it can be called that, does not take more than five minutes.

All in all, by the time Wynafryd and Lord Wyman have been brought forwards, there is only one man amongst them alive- a bastard, gasping for breath, that claims to be the son of Roose.

“Let him die,” Wynafryd snarls. Kieran looks to Sansa.

“We need proof,” Shireen calls. Battle has not suited her particularly well, but she’s held her own, and her mind is still clear.

“Leave his face, no matter what you do,” Lord Wyman says, “Princess Shireen is correct. We need proof.”

“You think you can hold me?” the young man growls. Wylla’s face twists into something terrible, a toothy smile that promises vengeance.

“You think we can’t, Ramsay Snow?”

Kieran freezes. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mya, teetering on her feet. Red climbs up the side of her soft green outerwear. The stag bastard locks eyes with the sea-hawk, smiles, and collapses.

-

“LET ME THROUGH!” Sansa roars, already pulling water from where it lies around her. Wynafryd races towards their fallen comrade as well. The two girls turn the Baratheon girl onto her back, and begin to cut away at her clothing to get at the wound.

Behind them, Ramsay Snow starts to laugh. It’s a slow, wicked thing, that matches his countenance. There’s a low growling sound, from Nymeria, Sansa bets. The massive grey direwolf makes a snapping move.

Sansa keeps her eyes- and hands- on Mya. She does not care for Ramsay Snow, or Bolton, or whatever he chooses to call himself.

The water in her hands glows as she moves it over Mya’s stomach. The wound is deep, and the blade sharp, but from what she can feel, it hasn’t severed anything beyond muscle.

Shireen raises the stone her cousin sits upon, and follows them inside. There’s a look of guilt upon her face (one that Sansa will take careful pains to wash away, in the future). Sansa hears the sound of a high cry upon the night wind, but ignores it.

She’s grateful that it’s the full moon tonight, and the water soaks deep. If it hadn’t been- Sansa does not want to think it. She’s already lost so many people- she will cling to her doe-stag with iron fingers.

She sways on her feet a few times. It does not take long to right herself, but Wynafryd notices.

“Get some sleep, Your Grace,” she says under her breath, “I can do this.”

Sansa wants to protest- that Mya needs her, that Wynafryd is just as tired as she is, that she will not leave- but Brienne grasps her hand in hers, and fixes blue eyes to blue.

“Let’s get you some sleep,” she whispers, “You’re not any use to Mya as exhausted as you are.”

That finally gets a choked sob and agreement from Sansa, who steels her eyes, straightens her back, and leaves the Healer’s Hall with her head held high.

She will not listen to the jeers that the Bolton boy tosses her way (she will not dignify him by calling him Snow- her bastard friends and bastard brother are far better than any Bolton will ever be). She will not cry.

Sansa Stark may not be quite Queen in the North yet, but she’s still the Lady of Winterfell, and she will not cry in front of her enemies, gods-dammit.

_ ‘It’s time to act,’ _ she thinks to herself,  _ ‘The Boltons have felt themselves superior for too long, now.’ _

She will take back Winterfell. Even if it kills her.

Denna keeps pace with her master. Only the polar bear dog seems to notice how the very ocean lashes with the red queen.

Sansa slumps back into her bed, tears staining her cheeks, and rage in her bones.

-

_ ‘The North is not simply won or demanded,’ _ she’d told him, before he’d left,  _ ‘It is  _ earned, _ with respect and dignity. We will not simply kneel because you tell us to do so, and fear only goes so far. Show them you value us, and they will come.’ _

Stannis thinks it’s strange, that some of the most powerful people at play in the war at the moment are little girls. If life had been different, he knows, had she been his daughter like Shireen, he would have defended her with his life, with all his honor. Even now, the parent in him screams at letting such a young thing be in the view of the worst of the worst.

Ser Davos agrees, he knows.

The best thing for all of them, Stannis is sure, is the fact that both girls have each other. He’d stayed his hand at first, in letting Shireen stay at White Harbor, but the fact that she’d asked, with such hope in her eyes- she’d become friends with proper court ladies, at last.

Stannis can handle having a Northern court for his daughter’s handmaids. They are quite like him, he knows, and will not be near as frivolous or scheming as those of, say, the Reach.

Stannis stares at the Titan of Braavos as he leaves. The immense statue, it seems, stares back with empty eyes. The mist curls around it in such a way that it almost feels as if the Titan is moving, preparing to step forwards and crush the Baratheon ship with one mighty step, and continue onwards into the sea, disappearing into the waves like nothing it has done will ever matter.

Far beyond, back in the city, a girl stares at a bay she can’t see, knowing, somehow, that she’s missed a chance, that she’s missed the  _ only _ chance she’ll have for a long, long time.

Arya Stark lets go of such childish things. She’s made the wrong choice, here, in Braavos, but it is still a choice, and she will stay its course.

-

Sansa has little wolf’s blood in her, but it is enough that she knows those around her worry- her uncle Brynden, most of all.

The old knight wakes her late in the morning, or early in the after-noon, Sansa does not know which.

All she knows is the good news.

She thanks the Old Gods for Ramsay’s folly of attacking on a full moon. Wynafryd is a terrific healer, one of the best in the world, likely, but even she and the other talents of White Harbor would find a gut wound tricky without moonlight to guide them.

Sansa resolves to commit herself more firmly to her studies of healing in the future- she cannot afford to be sent out again, they cannot afford to be down a healer in the conflicts to come.

For now, she leans her shoulder against her uncle, the stress of the night before making such a terrible headache that she’s afraid she might not be able to stand on her own.

Brynden Tully sighs, and leads her forwards. Once Sansa feels well enough to run, she breaks out into a sprint, Denna and Nymeria hot on her heels.

She practically skids to a stop once she reaches the healer’s hall. A joyous cry of “Sansa!” rings through the air, and Sansa nearly begins crying anew when she sees Mya, her battle-scarred Mya, her burnt-golden stag, alive, and healing.

She barely notices Kieran rising from Mya’s bedside to bring Sansa into a hug. The sea-hawk has a new crease of worry wrought into his brow. He returns to her side, after, nodding to Brynden and taking his normal guarding position.

“You’re alive,” Sansa whispers, eyes alight and fresh with tears. Mya takes Sansa’s hand in hers. Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa spots a slumbering Shireen and a shocked Selyse- the former has grown quite close to her bastard cousin as of late, and it’s no wonder that she snuck down to see the woman during the night.

What is a wonder, however, is the curious, guilty expression that graces Selyse Baratheon’s countenance. She is well aware that the Southron Queen has always longed for a son- an obsession already macabre and bordering on the unacceptable- and that she feels her daughter is sickly and unworthy.

The latter is certainly not true, and the former likely isn’t- Sansa knows well that Shireen is a surprisingly strong girl, despite her illness in youth, and she knows Greyscale survivors are so few and far between that Shireen must have been strong enough to fight the illness off.

Perhaps now, with Shireen holding her own against an enemy force, Queen Selyse will finally be forced to admit that her daughter is more than she gives her credit for.

Sansa can only hope.

-

Sweet, sweet Tommen is not as stupid as they all think he is.

He’s not exactly the brightest, he knows that much, but he’s not stupid, either. He knows his mother fucks her brother (his  _ father _ , he thinks) and he knows the Tyrells wish him a puppet and he knows that there is a real son of Robert Baratheon in the city and he knows that his betrothed is an earthbender.

Tommen’s eyes are sharp, and his gaze is wide, and his questions are earnest. His court, thinking nothing of it, indulge his questions- including his grandfather (on both sides), who Tommen is sure will see right through him.

But he doesn’t.

They really do think he’s that weak, don’t they.

Well, not weak, perhaps, but young. Tommen agrees with the latter point, well enough. If he was still Tommen in his skin, deep down, perhaps he would be so naive. But Tommen is of the opinion that he hasn’t been Tommen for quite a while, not since those awful dreams and Joffrey’s attention, and he’s also of the opinion that the rest of his family simply hasn’t noticed, too busy in their own machinations to notice how quiet he’s grown, or the nervous flinching at the sight of fire.

Margaery finally notices, one morning, he thinks. She stares into his eyes and finds nothing there, and backs away. Tommen blinks, and smiles. He may feel dull, worn out, but he’s not cold and he’s not cruel.

Margaery sits more stiffly, now, eyes owl-wide. She speaks to her brother and grandmother in hushed tones, and she flickers over to Tommen cautiously, carefully, like she expects him to explode in the middle of the throne room.

He doesn't. Instead, Tommen stays quiet, closed off. It almost feels as if there's a layer of cloth around each of his senses, shrouding him from the world.

Nothing feels real, to the little boy on the Iron Throne.

-

Beyond the wall, the Avatar trains.

Bran has taken to firebending with surprising ease, the same way he had airbending. The Three Eyed Raven- Bran’s past life, he says, because apparently a  _ proper _ firebending tutor could not be found in the time that they need to train him- says it's surprising for an originally waterbending Avatar, but not so much for Bran specifically, who seems to be more connected to air than anything else.

The Three Eyed Raven says that he’ll likely have quite the trouble when it comes time for Earthbending, but considering their foe, firebending is  _ paramount. _

Jojen drills Bran on airbending when he can, but defers to the Three Eyed Raven more than ever, now. The old Avatar is a brilliant bender, though he rarely smiles- except when fire lights in his hand. Somehow, deep down, Bran knows this is more about memory- the Three Eyed Raven has something in his eyes when he sees the flames dancing in his palm, like the world is suddenly alright for a moment, now that the fire is back. He feels bad for the long-dead Avatar, if Bran is going to be honest. The man is a closed-off, befuddled grump, but there’s grief and stubbornness there.

Bran wonders if he’s ever going to move on from this world, disappear and stop lurking around. He doubts it, for some reason- or, at the very least, it will take something truly spectacular to stop the fire cycle Avatar from peering over Bran’s shoulder.

Bran stares at him one morning, and asks the question that’s been burning, in the back of his mind.

“What are you so sad about?”

Brynden Rivers turns his creaking bones towards Bran, and cocks his head to the side. The spirit smiles.

“I’m not sad, little thing. Just tired.”

Bran knows better than to push him too far. He knows the first half of the answer was a lie, of course- Brynden is so, so, clearly sad, he grieves like anything, but the second half is certainly true- Brynden is tired, oh-so-tired. Bran wonders how long the old firebender can keep going like he is.

In the back of the cave, with Meera and Jojen and Hodor and Brynden and Summer, Bran sleeps, but his mind wanders. In one moment, he is Summer, slumbering peacefully. In another, he is sharp-eyed and high-flying, on the arm of another Brynden, with coal-black feathers and a letter on his feet. In another, he is nothing, a trail of lives before and behind him, a silver-haired man more faded than the rest.

Bran floats before a collection of creatures- a golden doe leaps, a blue sea-eagle above her head. A red wolf and a white dog snarl at a red-and-white griffin, a black dragon between them.

Above it all, he knows, is a silver wolf, eyes white-blue and glowing. Bran only realizes, as the dream is fading, that he’s been staring into a mirror.

He comes to with Meera holding his hand, and a smile from the Three Eyed Raven.

Bran settled back into his chair, the swirl of air around him dissipating like ordinary wind.

“Good job, little wolf,” the white dragon whispers.

Something uncomfortable settles in the pit of Bran’s stomach.

-

Kieran’s gait is stiff and controlled, now. The slightest noise, and he reaches for a weapon, or fire blooms in his hands. Shireen and Sansa are the same way, taught and angry and cautious, but they’re both Ladies, and while they’re cautious,  _ it’s not their job to be. _

For Kieran, it’s the literal definition of his job to be on guard as much as he can, and the golden-eyed firebender is just that, a tall, lean shadow behind the Lady of Winterfell as they descend into the dungeons.

Sansa’s white-knuckled grip on the knife on her side is the only thing that betrays her rage. Otherwise, she’s as cold as ice, and Kieran can’t really blame her. If he was the kind to be cool and reserved, he would be, but by his own nature, he’s a hothead. Unfortunately.

Sansa throws out a hand, as soon as they arrive at the Bolton heir’s cell. Kieran feels a shout bubbling up in his throat, but stays quiet, resisting the urge to grind his teeth.

Ramsay smiles a feral, wide smile when he sees the sea-hawk bastard. He can’t quite hear what the man says, but it’s enough to make Sansa angry, to say the least.

He can barely make out what Sansa says in response-

“If you ever try to invalidate my sworn sword like that again,” she growls, “I will let  _ him _ burn you to a crisp. Happily.”

Kieran, then, knows what Ramsay Bolton must have said. He knows Sansa knows that he is fully capable of defending himself, but the gesture is quite nice.

Kieran’s a little too frazzled to be burning anyone to a crisp at the moment had it  _ not _ been Ramsay, but the fire comes quite easily to his hands at the moment.

“I’d suggest avoiding insulting anyone else in this castle,” she continues, “Even the worst among us are still worlds better than yourself.”

She turns on a dime, and shows herself out. Kieran follows, turning back only to glare at the Bolton and snuff out his fire in his fist.

Sansa grips his hand, once they’re out of the dungeons, and turns him to face her.

“Keep your eyes sharp,” she hisses under her breath, “We may have won this time, but we cannot afford to let them get this close, again.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” Kieran growls, “I don’t like this any more than you do.”

They’ll have to move the Bolton boy to nicer quarters, soon, as his station dictates. Kieran would gladly throw him to Nymeria and let her decide, if he could- the silver wolf and the wolves that have followed her tend to be excellent judges of character, and from what he’s heard of this young man, ripped apart by canines would be quite the fitting end- but he’s not a cruel man, and the sounds of screams have always turned his stomach, no matter who they’re from.

He re-lights the fire in his hand, and follows Sansa closely.

Kieran’s head is always on a swivel. He won’t change that fact for a long, long time.

-

Jon steadies himself as he stares down from the Wall.

_ ‘Survive the night,’ _ he tells himself,  _ ‘All you need to do is survive the night, push them back, make them second-guess themselves. _ ’

It’s a comforting thought. Unfortunately, it’s not nearly enough.

Jon weaves through men, hand on his sword-hilt. He cuts and he slashes and he stabs, and he holds his own as best he can.

There’s a few moments when, for all intents and purposes, Jon should be dead. And, frankly, he should realize why he isn’t- why fire blinds his enemies, why his blood burns with energy, why lightning arcs from his fingertips. But Jon’s never been the smartest in a room, unfortunately.

When the dawn comes- and sure enough, it does- many lie dead, but Castle Black still stands.

Jon doesn’t notice scorched corpses, or the pillars of earth that lie around Sam.

A steel-eyed King stands before him, and tells him of his sister. Jon barely listens.

He’s too busy staring at the fire in his palms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more Kieran POV, a Stannis POV, and Jon figures out he's got powers! (also Bran figures out the Avatar State)


	9. burnout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more Jon! more Olenna! and also more Gilly bc i love her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am doing this instead of my college apps... why

Missandei worries about her Queen.

She’s been protective rage and iciness for as long as Missandei has known her, but now, as she’s gotten to know the real Daenerys, it feels as if she’s slipping away beneath that outer shell, growing harsher, fiercer, and more bloody as the days go by.

The things she excuses become more and more alarming, and the rush she seems to get from hearing the cheers grows more and more evident.

To Missandei, it has grown obvious that her Queen needs love and praise like she needs air. Missandei knows it’s not her fault, not at all, but sometimes-

Sometimes, she locks eyes with Grey Worm from across the room, and decides, to herself, that someday, they are going to steal their gold-and-silver queen away from this place. It feels, as they look over the assembled advisors- Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan, Missandei herself, Grey Worm, and Daario, that they’re the only two that just want Daenerys to be herself and safe and happy. Well, maybe Daario, too. But Ser Jorah’s love is twisted off to the side, an obsessive thing that could change in a heartbeat, and Ser Barristan- when Ser Barristan looks at their Queen, he does not see her. He sees her brother.

And now, now that they’ve learned that Prince Rhaegar’s son lives- if it is him- Missandei is not sure if he will stay with them.

Missandei does not care about birthright, or politics. She cares about freedom and choice and her silver-gold Dragon Queen, who grows further and further away every day, it seems. Missandei wants to reach out, to tell her it will all be alright, that she does not need to push herself so- but she fears she might overstep her bounds.

She tells all of this to Grey Worm, the night before Rhaegal and Viserion are locked in the Great Pyramid. He holds her head in his hands, and they cry. Together.

-

There are few days that Aegon is of the opinion that his foster father might require a fireblast (or, a standard punch) to the face.

However, the comments he’d made about his aunt’s army once he was deep enough into his cups might qualify. Aegon’s not the most considerate of young men (boys, as his mother likely would have corrected- he is still, more than a man, a boy), but even he’s well aware that there is no excuse for making another person’s trauma the butt of one’s joke.

So, instead of burning the man that’s the closest thing Aegon has had to a father since he was an infant in the face, he changes the subject.

“Should we still make landfall in the Stormlands?” he asks, “From what I have heard, the North may be amendable to an alliance- they’ve lost much to the Lannisters, and the only living member of the family is a girl only a shake younger than I am.”

Jon snorts.

“It seems they’ve thrown their lot in with the _ true _ Baratheons,” he replies, “Though, if Stannis dies, I have no doubt his daughter would back down without much of a fight.”

Ah, yes. The girl who’d beaten greyscale.

Something tingles in the back of Aegon’s head, like _ greyscale _ is important, or that it will be, later. The feeling fades as quickly as it had come, and Aegon sets his eyes more firmly on the matter at hand.

“We should establish contact them anyways,” he replies, voice soft and even, and every inch a King’s, “There’s no reason that we shouldn’t, at the very least, consider allying with the Baratheons against the Lannisters if they’re willing to bend the knee.”

He doesn’t notice the little jerk of Jon’s head, the way his eyes open wider for just a fraction of a second, like he’s realized something monumental.

Aegon has decided for himself.

Once the Golden Company swear to him, he will not take the South. He will go directly North, and slam the Lannisters between the wolves and the dragons and the suns, and the stags if he can convince them.

Violet fire flickers upwards in his hands.

Aegon sighs, and snuffs it out. With a heavy hand, he grips a scrap of paper and a pen, and begins to write.

_ To Whom It May Concern, _ he begins, and then scratches it out.

_ To Lady Sansa Stark, _ he corrects, for that is who he is trying to reach, is it not?

_ This may come as an unexpected surprise, but… _

-

Gendry knows that they need to move, and soon.

Tyrion Lannister has been gone for some time, now, and Margaery has settled well into her role as Queen, but both he and Loras feel it.

Loras. Loras has been shut off, lately, and Gendry has begun to worry for his new friend. The raid on Littlefinger’s _ establishment _\- one that Gendry might not have known of, had he not been friends with the Queen and her brother, now- has put him on edge.

“You visited someone there,” Gendry says plainly, “Frequently.”

“Didn’t know he worked there,” Loras mutters under his breath, drawing his legs up to his chest, “And now- And now-”

“And now the Sparrows might find out about you, too,” Gendry says, voice soft.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to leave the city?” the blacksmith asks. Loras’s curly hair whips into his face as he spins his head around. Gendry holds back a laugh. It’s not the time for such things.

“What did you say?” Loras asks, voice high and weak. It’s like he’s desperate for good news, and Gendry can absolutely understand the feeling.

“Her Grace would probably like you to stay here,” Gendry says, “But if you asked, she would let you leave, and in a heartbeat at that. If she knew you worried for your safety, she’d have yelled at you for being careless, but would have set you out on a ship for Highgarden before you’d’ve known what to do with yourself. Milord.”

“Gendry, do drop the pretenses.”

“Thank you. As I was saying, if you need to leave the city, we need to do it now. I know how to get out of here under, say, cover of darkness and all that, but you should probably try to use official channels if you want to leave without suspicion.”

“Since when have you sounded so professional?” Loras asks in mock surprise.

“I was under the impression that is what you and Her Grace have been teaching me for, Ser.”

Loras continues to stare out the window. Gendry wonders if there’s anything that could cheer the Knight of Flowers up, anything at all, and then he remembers.

“You know, I had a friend once, that thought all one needed to be a knight was a suit of armor,” he begins. Loras doesn’t move, but a smile quirks at the edges of his mouth.

“What was their name?”

_ ‘Gotcha, _’ Gendry thinks.

“Hot Pie.”

That gets a laugh out of Loras, who turns to Gendry with less of a heavy deadness in his eyes.

“And what did the blacksmith’s apprentice tell this Hot Pie?”

Gendry sits back in a chair that, had he seen before this long, messy journey, he would have thought fit for royalty (and, he supposes, it is).

“Well, I _ started _ by explaining that I’ve made armor,” he says, and waves his hands in the air for emphasis. Loras sits forwards in his seat.

-

Two stags stand by the wall of New Castle. One, a golden stag with hair like midnight and eyes like the sky, leans on a makeshift cane. The other, of dark fur and even darker hair, stands proud.

“What should we do?” Shireen whispers. There’s no shake to her voice, Mya notes. She looks every inch the princess, for once.

She’s not being nebulous. She’s genuinely asking her bastard cousin for a course of action, and Mya obliges.

“Tell Sansa,” she says, indicating the letter gripped in her hands, “Write to your father, if he lives, but be prepared for your own decision, if he does not. If this is the true Aegon Targaryen, you have two options in front of you. You can bend the knee- which you should not feel _ obligated _ to do, but it is a choice if you need such- or you can unbend it, declare yourself Queen of the Stormlands by right. It may be passed through the matriline, but you do have a claim to the title, if you wish to create a chain reaction.”

“But I should tell Lady Sansa first,” Shireen says, “And my mother.”

“But you should tell them first.”

“Thank you, Mya,” Shireen hums, voice soft, but no longer a whisper, as she turns back towards the interior of the keep. Mya huffs, quietly, but the golden stag turns back towards the sea.

“You’re welcome, Princess,” she whispers, and follows.

The massive silver wolf and slightly smaller bundle of white fur follow her. Denna has grown larger and larger over the course of the past year and a half- the polar-bear dog, as they’ve taken to calling her, is large enough to carry someone of Shireen’s size on her back, now, and likely will be large enough to carry Sansa, too, soon enough.

“Good girls, Denna, Nymeria,” Mya says. Both leap to their feet in an instant. Denna, ever the bundle of energy, threatens to bowl the golden stag right over.

Mya laughs, and leans harder on her cane.

It’s a good day.

-

Sansa and Brienne and Brynden are dueling in the courtyard, water-whips and ice and steam dashing between their fingers and towards each other. Kieran stands to the side, watching grey and gold and red dart around his line of sight. A small flame hovers in his cupped hands, keeping him warm against the autumnal chill. He yawns, and huddles closer in on himself. Nymeria and Denna sleep in a drift of snow near New Castle’s wall, while their masters fight with water above their heads.

Mya knocks Kieran’s head to the side- a tiny motion that Kieran has learned means “budge over”. He does. Mya smiles, and squeezes his hand in hers.

“I’m doing fine, your huffiness,” she says, and Kieran laughs. Fire spills out of his mouth, and Mya takes her free hand and lifts his head.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Mya,” he says, “Better than fine.”

He slumps back against the wall, cracks his back so hard he nearly doubles over laughing again, and returns to watching the three waterbenders beat the foolishness out of each other.

Brienne is strength incarnate. If only brute force is to be counted, she’s the strongest of the three. Her technique is mostly unrefined and isn’t particularly efficient, but she’d grown up on an island- Kieran is certain she hadn’t needed to be efficient when she was learning- and she’s clearly a quick learner. She’s already picked up a few secondhand tips from Sansa, and there are plenty of maneuvers that Brynden uses as well, but Brienne seems just a little less familiar with, suggesting to Kieran that she’d learned them from him. Recently, too.

The Blackfish is all about efficiency. He’s strong, of course, as anyone who’d gotten to his age and can still fight must be, but he’s far more focused than Brienne. His movements are more fluid, too. If they’d both lost their bending, and Kieran had to guess based off of stance alone, he would have said that Ser Brynden is the waterbender, and Brienne was an earthbender.

The Blackfish’s forms aren’t quite the same as, say, Wynafryd’s, but that seems to be more out of personal preference than any significant difference in their skill levels.

Sansa, though.

Sansa combines a level of sheer power and stamina that skews more towards Brienne’s, and a level of skill that, while not necessarily a match for the Blackfish, will likely get there eventually. She’s far lighter on her feet than either of the others, too- far more like Podrick’s airbending style or Kieran’s own firebending stances than a traditional waterbender’s movements.

Kieran stares, enraptured. He’s so enraptured, in fact, that he misses the mad scramble of Ramsay Bolton over the wall that night, when the waterbenders are still fighting in earnest.

In fact, everyone is watching them. Which is why it’s not much of a surprise that it takes as long as it does for them to realize that their hostage is missing (well, almost everyone. If Wyman knows a little more than everyone else, that's his business, isn't it?)

-

Jon just about loses it during his first firebending lesson. He hears Maester Aemon’s faint chuckling from behind him as he yelps and steps back. Gilly, emboldened by her earlier win, presses forwards.

She’s a talented firebender, Gilly is. Frightfully talented. Her fire burns a yellow-white, far brighter than Jon’s red-to-yellow, and far hotter, too.

Little Sam claps and cheers at the sight. Sam smiles and offers Jon words of advice. Most of the information isn’t particularly useful- Sam is an earthbender, after all, not a firebender- but he does develop something of a hybrid style along the way. His defenses are stonewalled and based around absorbing attacks, not deflecting them like Gilly does. He’s less acrobatic and agile, but makes up for it with sheer force.

He doesn’t like the eyes on him, the eyes of the woman in red. He tells as such to Sam, who, with nervousness in his eyes, agrees.

“She likes fire far too much, I believe,” the earthbender mutters under his breath. Jon has to agree at that- she’d seemed fascinated with his bending far more than was normal. He has no distaste for followers of religion not his own, or those from different lands, far away from Westeros, but her fascination with his fire had seemed wrong, uncomfortable.

_ ‘Ice preserves, and fire consumes,’ _ he reminds himself, _ ‘So what does she wish to consume?’ _

He pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders, and resolves to simply ignore her, rather than causing a fight that will lead to King Stannis’s vital troops leaving them in the cold, alone against an army of a hundred thousand.

Instead, Jon Snow busies himself with a habit (or, rather, two) he’s rarely taken up in his nearly two decades of living.

Thinking. And knowing things.

While he does this, a letter arrives for Maester Aemon.

And _ only _ Maester Aemon.

-

Gendry is sick to his stomach.

He’d known this would happen. He doesn’t know how he’d known, but he had, and he’d told Loras, and Loras hadn’t listened, and now both he and Margaery are paying the price.

_ ‘You have to save them, _ ’ he thinks to himself, _ ‘They saved you, after all.’ _

The Faith Militant are armed, but Gendry is a metalbender of the finest quality- one of the only two in the world, the other being Her Grace herself- and he can take care of this without shedding a single drop of blood.

Unless there are earthbenders in the Faith Militant. But Margaery is an even better earthbender than Gendry is. And Gendry’s absolutely certain she’d be more than capable of taking out a few dozen armed fanatics.

Unless-

Gendry groans, and places his face in his hands, scrubbing at his eyes.

“You are Gendry, boy?” a woman asks. She’s elegant and ancient, with a look of harshness to her eyes. Gendry stands, and nods, offering his chair.

“Oh, stuff it, this chair’s good enough for me. Sit, you are the boy my grandchildren have spent so much time around recently, aren’t you?”

Gendry does as he’s told, and sits, nodding.

“Yes, milady.”

“A bastard for a King and a king’s bastard sits in front of me,” she mutters to herself. Gendry jerks, just barely, but remembers the fancy manners that Margaery has drilled into him with force.

“I would rather you not mention that, milady.”

“And I would rather my grandchildren- the very future of my House- not be in jeopardy because that brother-fucker of a Queen Mother has a jealousy problem, but we can’t always get what we want, can we?” she barks back. Gendry winces.

“I would rather that they be out of custody as well, milady.”

“Of course you would, boy, they’re your friends, aren’t they? But that’s not why I am speaking with you,” she says, and leans forwards, just barely, “I am speaking with you, because I want to know what you know about the Starks. And your cousin.”

Gendry freezes.

“Milady, I don’t know what-”

“You can trust me, boy, you’d happily run into a fire for my grandchildren, and that’s the kind of loyalty I reward.”

Gendry narrows his eyes at her.

“I haven’t seen the Lady Shireen or Arry- Lady Arya- in years, milady. I met Lord Stark once, and that’s the only contact I’ve had with that family. Stannis is a harsh man- if Shireen hadn’t convinced him of something- I don’t know what- before I had arrived, she told me he would have burned me alive. I’ve been told my half-sister is one of Lady Sansa’s bodyguards, and I met the other- a highborn bastard, Kieran Snow- when he was a part of Lord Stark’s guard, but only once, and in passing. I can’t tell you much about any of them.”

_ ‘Except that Shireen is an earthbender to rival Margaery and Arya is the best waterbender I’ve ever seen, _’ he thinks.

“No, there’s something more that you know,” Lady Olenna says, cocking her head to the side. The look in her eyes reminds him of a predator, of the wolves he’d seen in the Riverlands, or of the Red Woman who’d placed herself by King Stannis’s side.

“It’s not relevant,” he says. Lady Olenna huffs, and straightens.

“I will decide what’s _ relevant- _”

“It won’t be relevant until we meet them in person, Lady Tyrell. If it looks like I will die or be left behind before then, I will tell you, but I don’t even know if the information I have is accurate anymore, and they’re my friends, too.”

Lady Olenna sits back, defeated. Gendry is proud of himself for not breaking entirely, but still feels guilty.

_ ‘She’s just worried for her grandchildren.’ _

Gendry makes a promise to himself, to save them.

He will save Loras and Margaery. Whatever it takes.

What Gendry doesn’t know, of course, is the unrelated bastard that calls himself Gendry’s trueborn half-brother is considering the same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yah jon is... a moderately talented firebender? but not nearly at his "cousin"'s, gilly's, or kier's.  
also i REALLy like the idea that sansa waterbends with a bit of an airbending inspired style  
\+ all the tyrells love gendry bc i like that


	10. the heat of the afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> myrcella POV, arya POV, warging, and also gendry accidentally acquires a pregnant horse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this didn't take so long (it was actually ch 11 that didn't take so long bc of my rules about not publishing until the next chapter is done, but still)

As it turns out, Olenna Tyrell does  _ not _ end up staging a quiet rescue in the middle of the night with Gendry’s help. Instead, she presses a letter into the hands of the blacksmith’s apprentice, and tells him to run North as fast as he can.

Gendry does as he’s told, quietly leaving the city. It hurts, deep down. But he has a job to do, and if he does it well, he’ll save them.

Olenna Tyrell sits at the window, and watches what she assumes is him leave the city.

Tommen watches, too.

Gendry feels the boy’s eyes on him, and nothing seems to shake them. He clutches the letter for King Stannis or Sansa Stark- whomever he reaches first- in his hand.

And he runs like hell.

He hops on the first boat to Gulltown. From there, someone with a golden rose on their lapel tosses a bag full of dried food, a full water skin, and the reins of a tall, strong courser in his direction.

Gendry takes the hint, and starts riding.

He doesn't know much about horses, but he likes this one. She's a well-mannered mare, from what Gendry would think might be good stock. She has an incredibly smooth gait, one that he thinks would be excellent for a mounted archer, and though she may have a little bit of chunk around the middle (chunk she thankfully doesn't seem to be losing as they continue on their trek towards White Harbor), her coat still gleams, and the white blanket that covers her rear still practically glows against the pitch black of the rest of her fine fur.

Gendry is in something of a hurry, but he likes this well-mannered mare who will put herself between him and anything in a heartbeat. She reminds him of himself in that way.

He will arrive in White Harbor after around two moons of nonstop traveling. At that time, the Maester will inform him exactly why the mare he’s named Midnight (Gendry really only has an imagination when it comes to metal) has only gained weight since he left Gulltown.

A moon later, a colt with the exact same markings as his dam, if very small and skinny and washed-out, will nuzzle his face into Gendry’s astonished hands.

(The colt is named Moonrise by Podrick. Gendry thinks that this is a rather fitting moniker, not only for the pattern, but for the timing, too).

-

Kieran finds that having three Baratheons to watch over when there's a Bolton on the loose is even worse than just the two. With the exception of the fact that they stay exclusively within the stables most of the time, now. That's nice.

He passes stag-watching duty over to Brynden, and switches back to his normal duties, now with a polar bear dog cub and a full grown direwolf at his sides, where all three of them can watch their charge safely.

Denna keeps the closest to Sansa. She reacts seemingly without being told, teeth bared and high hackles raised higher in an instant. Nymeria takes a little longer, and still takes cues from Denna and Sansa, but she, too, cuts an imposing figure when she wishes it, and the direwolf is far more intimidating than the soft and playful polar bear dog is, anyways.

Sometimes, the Hound will haul himself out from wherever he's been staying and entertain the two canids enough so that they do not bother Sansa when she’s doing something important. Kieran thanks him for that. Up until, of course, it seems to be the time for sharing stories. It’s a quiet morning, there’s essentially nothing to do in regards to preparations, Shireen, Selyse, Mya, and Gendry have all gathered in the Great Hall along with who Kieran has dubbed in his head as ‘Arya’s Pack’, the Manderly girls, and Sansa herself.

There’s a heavy rain, outside.

“So, since we have nothing better to do,” Ser Brynden Tully offers, “Why not share our escape stories?”

Kieran barely listens to Sansa’s tale- he knows it well enough. He offers an ear to Mya up until their meeting. Shireen and Selyse don’t exactly have the most interesting of tales, but there are two stories that make him sit up in attention.

The first among them, of course, is Brienne of Tarth’s. She details everything they hadn’t known from between her arrival in King’s Landing and the death of King Joffrey Waters, and her understanding of alliances, though less complete than her not-a-squire’s, is better than Gendry’s.

The second tale that catches his ear is Gendry’s. Not for the fact that it’s dramatic (though it is) but simply for the fact that it is so gods-damned  _ bonkers. _

“So, in short,” he cuts in, “You fled the City Watch, nearly got rooted out by more of Cersei’s men, ended up in Harrenhal, got saved by an assassin and a bloodbending princess whom you didn’t know was a princess until after you’d been nabbed by the Brotherhood Without Banners and Sandor here spilled the beans. You got sold to the Red Witch, trained with Shireen for a while, quite possibly nearly got sacrificed, were sent to King’s Landing, ended up befriending an enemy Queen and her knight brother and their lady grandmother, were sent to Gulltown to bring us reliable information on a possible alliance, and you ended up spending two months riding a heavily pregnant mare all the way to White Harbor.”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Gendry says.

“Well that makes my story  _ far _ less entertaining,” Kieran gripes. Sansa snorts in a rather undignified manner, a faint smile on her face. Denna looks up from where her head’s been sitting on the Stark girl’s lap, obediently waiting for pats, and yawns widely.

“How are we supposed to get a message back to Lady Olenna, though?” Lady Brienne ventures. Her demeanor has gone from relaxed and open to stiff and on edge in a moment, as if she knows something that the rest of them don’t.

“You’ve met the Lady Margaery as well, yes?” Sansa says. She, too, has gone from friendly to politician at a moment’s notice. Denna, too, stiffens at her side, swiveling her head around to search for threats.

“I have. In complete honesty, she seemed quite taken with stories of you, my lady,” Brienne offers. Gendry snorts.

“‘Taken with them’ is an understatement.”

He seems to realize something about what he’s just said, and shuts his mouth, leaving the hall. Likely, Kieran thinks, to go to the stables again, and fuss over that fine courser colt of his.

He says as such to the group. It doesn’t break the tenseness of the new mood.

Denna raises her moon-white head, and howls.

Something feels like it just about clicks into place.

-

Davos thinks, sometimes, that he might just be afraid of the little girls that his King is trying his best to be a father too (even if only one of them is his). Shireen, he knows, would likely never hurt him unless Davos did something monumentally stupid, but he’s not nearly as sure about Sansa. The young waterbender is far more reactionary than Shireen has ever been. He supposes it’s only a testament to their natures- Shireen is a true earthbender, practically unflappable with a mild undercurrent of confidence that her mother has still not been able to shake from her.

Sansa, though- Sansa is far easier to provoke, and it’s grown clearer and clearer in the most recent letters Shireen has sent him and King Stannis that Sansa has grown into a backbone and a frightening set of waterbending skills.

Davos feels a bit of second-hand pride at that, and he knows his King, who is anything but a bad father, feels the same.

Mya, so they hear, is faring well as well. Stannis had ground his teeth for days after Shireen’s letter informing them of the Bolton boy’s capture, and his subsequent escape, but Davos knows his King is soft towards the oldest of his nieces, and the thought of the young woman being hurt had stung.

Melisandre keeps his ear. Davos shifts from foot to foot, still as uncomfortable as ever.

They get even worse news, the week after that.

Edric Storm is dead. The letter says lightning strike, but Davos knows better.

There's a flicker in Melisandre’s eyes.

He doesn't like it. It makes Davos feel watched and uncomfortable, like something's about to happen and he doesn't even know the half of it.

He writes a letter to Shireen in large, shaky letters, wishing her the best of luck.

He decides not to mention the death of her cousin.

It would be cruel.

-

There's something off about the way Arya feels, now. Despite her sightlessness, she darts out of the way of every living thing in her path. She still has trouble with dry things, but she's been getting better, and she's been training, too.

Even now, Arya is still, deep down,  _ Arya. _ Even when she proves herself to the Faceless Men, even when her eyes clear and she freezes a man in his place, even when she calls herself no one and says she has no name- she is still Arya.

It just takes a little longer for her to realize it.

She drifts into the back of her head some nights, when grey eyes are golden and she sleeps next to a well-muscled creature covered in a thick white coat. Arya doesn't quite know what she is- she may very well never know, in all actuality. Arya spends as much time in Nymeria’s skin as she can, but it is taxing, and Arya cannot sleep for as long as she likes.

Something else feels off, about her, and about the House of Black and White. She can't quite put her finger on it, on the way that eyes follow her and study her every move, until she sees the shape she's grown accustomed to stiffen their hands, and play a man like a puppet.

Horror fills Arya’s mind. She knows what they want from her- something she’d promised herself she’d never do again (a promise she’s broken time and time again), something that makes every single hair on her body stand on end.

_ Bloodbending _ .

‘ _ That's why I'm here,’ _ she thinks, ‘ _ They need another bloodbender.’ _

Arya doesn’t realize that it hadn’t been  _ another _ bloodbender that they’d needed, but a bloodbender in the first place, for it is a far rarer skill than most will find.

-

_ Sansa hasn’t practiced slipping her mind into another’s skin in so, so, long. It almost feels like coming home, when she wakes up with Denna’s eyes instead of her own. With the way that the cub’s mind tugs at her own, it feels more like the polar bear dog had initiated things. _

_ Something in the back of their now-shared head seems to pulse contentedly, like the ball of white fluff is saying ‘This, you idiot, is how it’s done.’ _

_ Sansa can’t complain about it. She tries to sink into the back of Denna’s head, let the cub take charge and just watch, but Denna pushes her forwards. _

‘You need to learn this,’ _ she can almost imagine her saying. Sansa would laugh, if she had heard such a thing. Instead, she runs on too-big paws, and stares at the light of the moon from where it is in her window. _

_ There’s a smell- a good smell, like freshwater- something Sansa can’t smell, but Denna certainly can. Sansa feels herself wriggling like a newborn. _

_ It’s dark gray hair and iron and freshwater, to be specific. Pack and fish. _

_ Sansa in Denna’s skin sits, and stares at the face of Ser Brynden Tully. _

_ “What are you doing up?” he whispers. Sansa’s never noticed just how  _ soft _ his voice is when he’s talking to her white-furred companion, but she certainly notices now. She cocks her head, and then turns it, sniffing some more. _

_ “What? What is it?” _

_ Sansa-as-Denna snarls- it’s a deep, terrible sound, but it makes quite the impression. She hears Nymeria’s concerned, bleary whine drift through the halls, but does not pay it any heed. _

_ Through Denna’s eyes, Sansa catches the barest glimpse of a man in a glider alighting on the outer wall of New Castle. _

She wakes to the announcement of the arrival of Petyr Baelish.

-

“I know you’re likely sick of me asking the question,” Aegon says, “But when are we planning to arrive in White Harbor?”

“We’re stopping in Dorne first,” Jon bites back. He’s clearly hungover, and Aegon winces as he does, but he’s not sorry for getting the man drunk off his ass, and he’s even less sorry for penning his letters.

_ To King Aegon Targaryen, _

_ The North is currently allied with King Stannis Baratheon, First Of His Name. However, while I cannot speak for King Stannis, I will say that the North is more than happy to at the very least consider an alliance. Meet the Crown Princess Shireen and myself in White Harbor at your earliest convenience, and we will attempt to work out an agreement. We of the North are not the fondest of Southron politics, you see, and we have died too much in Southern wars to be swayed easily without proof of good will towards our kingdom. _

_ Yours truly, _

_ Queen in the North, Sansa Stark _

Jon had cursed for  _ days _ over the reply, from ‘who does she think she is’ (the Queen in the North, apparently, though Aegon feels she may have just picked the most impressive-sounding of her titles to not sound underqualified for a negotiation) to ‘we could work with this’ (which, to Aegon, likely means he’s working out a marriage contract in the back of his head- something Aegon doesn’t exactly mind, considering that for all he’s heard, Sansa Stark is supposed to be a beautiful young woman, a true Queen Consort, and now a Queen Regnant in her own right- and considering their lack of existing family ties, she makes for an interesting conundrum. Not for the first time, Aegon considers just taking a swathe out of the Crownlands and Riverlands and leaving the other kingdoms to their own devices).

He, frankly, does not feel as conflicted about the prospect as Jon likely wishes he would. He knows it’s a standard thing to his family, and it’s not like he’s grown up with his aunt or his cousin, but something seems just so  _ unsettling _ about marrying a close relative- someone he believes should be in his corner, no matter what their previous alliances were- instead of marrying to steady his feet in this muck.

Aegon is uncomfortable, in general, if he’s to be honest with himself. He tries to work such things out with his fire, but it never turns out particularly well. He’s afraid of hurting his crew, now, with the violet flames that burst from his hands. It seems that the closer they get to Westeros- the more of a King that Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his Name becomes- the less control he has over his inner (and outer) fire.

He holds his hands in each other, wishing desperately for when he was young again, when the mantle of King hadn’t dared touch him yet, wishing for when Illyrio or Jon would offer a pair of arms and a place to cry, and wouldn’t judge him for it.

_ ‘You have to be strong, _ ’ he tells himself,  _ ‘For Westeros as they all know it.’ _

The firebender dearly wishes he didn’t have to.

-

Myrcella knows she has more of a backbone than both of her siblings combined. She knows that Ser Jaime Lannister is her father (and no matter how much it makes her stomach turn, just a little bit, he’s certainly a better father than the departed King Robert ever was). She also knows that the new, mostly uncrowned Queen in the North, Sansa Stark, is far more than she’s ever let on.

Something doesn’t sit quite right in her belly, so she goes to Ellaria Sand. The older woman, with sharp eyes and a cruel-kind smile, has always seemed to have a soft spot for her, which Myrcella thanks the gods for.

“We do not hurt little girls in Dorne,” she’d said, the first night Myrcella had arrived there, a little confused and more than a little frightened. Jaime Lannister may be a far better father than King Robert ever was, but Myrcella would happily give up her crown to be a Sand daughter of Ellaria. She’s said so, once or twice, in the dark of the night, when her heart aches and she’s the most honest she will ever be.

The Sand Snakes have told her they’d be happy to have her as a sister, and Myrcella, though she’s still on her toes, believes them.

“You are not at fault for what your family has done,” Obara says, sharpening her spear-tip.

“You are not your grandfather, and you are not your mother,” Nymeria says, cupping Myrcella’s golden-haired head in her hands.

“You choose who you are going to be, and you have chosen well,” Tyrene says, locking eyes with the princess. Sarella stays quiet.

“We do not hurt little girls in Dorne,” they say in unison.

_ ‘But it doesn’t matter how much you say such things,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘Dorne will always resent me for it. No matter how far I go, I  _ cannot _ run from my family.’ _

She’s steeled herself, now, hasn’t cried in a long, long time. She feels, if she’s to be honest, almost  _ hollow, _ like she’s nothing more than a pretty shell hiding an ocean full of tears. She scrubs at her eyes covertly with a handkerchief when she can, but otherwise keeps her spine straight and her eyes forward. She may trust the Martells and the Sands, but she knows better than to trust their allies.

She doesn’t know who is on their way to Sunspear, just that there is someone, someone important, and they may very well be the reason that Arianne is not married. Myrcella is curious about such a thing. Arianne, after all, has been unmarried longer than any of Myrcella’s cousins.

She decides to keep her mouth shut, to stay polite. She wants to avoid as much conflict as she can with the Prince of Dorne.

Myrcella smiles nervously as she makes her way to Prince Doran’s chosen meeting room, Trystane’s hand firmly clenched in her own. They sit together.

Myrcella gasps as a white-haired young man steps into the room.

“Ah,” King Aegon VI Targaryen says, “You must be Myrcella.”

The little lioness can do nothing but nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ventured into the depths of Horse Youtube and several of its sub-genres for this, because baby animals and cute asides are both great. Y'all are welcome.  
(+ Midnight and Moonrise are friesian/appaloosa crosses. also I like to think that sandor's black courser is moonrise's dad)
> 
> also! we've got angry!margaery and Nebulous Tommen POV's upcoming in ch11!


	11. i hear you whisper "i have nothing left"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommen is scared of Marge, Aegon is about to meet the Ladies, and Jon and Sam have some bonding time with Davos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *feral screaming*

Margaery Tyrell feels rage pulse deep down in her stomach. She knows her grandmother can’t see it, at least not well, she knows that the Queen Mother in the cell beside hers can’t see it either.

‘ _ I could crush you under this gods-forsaken place in a second if I so chose,’ _ she thinks to herself,  _ ‘So why don’t I?’ _

She knows Loras feels the same.

Loras. That’s why she hasn’t. Loras isn’t an earthbender like she is, and she hasn’t seen him for more than a moment in so, so long- if she brings down this terrible place, she does not know if she can reach him before he’s crushed under the weight of the Great Sept.

So Margaery grits her teeth, and does what she can to make things harder for the Septa that “cares” for her, and makes things harder for the High Sparrow, too. Hallways that were once smooth-stoned grow shaky and unsteady. The earth below them creaks in the night, like the entire Sept will collapse under its own weight, finally. Margaery smiles when the hushed voices of the Sparrows grow louder and louder and louder, when they scream when spires of earth jut up from the ground, when they look upon her with just a flicker of fear and understanding in their eyes.

Margaery is struck by a sudden realization. Not one of these weak-willed men, and the women who make up the Septas that follow them, is a bender. She’s never met a single Septon or Septa or Sparrow with the ability.

_ ‘I know something you don’t,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘I have more power than you could ever imagine, and it scares you, because I would never use my power for the horrible, horrible things you would do with it, but you think I  _ would.’

Not for the first time, Margaery wonders if bending is a gift to those who will use it as they should- then quickly dashes the notion. Her Earthbender mother had told her of many a wicked bender- it must simply be that there is nothing that draws her fellows to positions like those available to the Faith.

Margaery feels metal curl between her fingers, and, in her head, thanks Gendry for showing her how to bend it- she hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it before the blacksmith had walked her through his own breakthrough, despite her own expertise in earth far outpacing his.

_ ‘I will save you, Loras,’ _ she thinks to herself,  _ ‘I need not beg for rescue. I am one of the best earthbenders of my generation, if not  _ the _ best. I have been able to kill men since before I could walk. I have learned from the highest lords to the lowest of the smallfolk, from the most learned of maesters to the great blind badger-moles that walk beneath the earth. I may not be able to see with my feet, as Gendry says the Baratheon princess can, but I can feel every heartbeat in this gods-forsaken sept.’ _

_ ‘I can save myself.’ _

-

Sansa does not trust Petyr Baelish.

It is not because of the curses Lady Brienne whispers at him under her breath. It is not because of the dark, terrible glare of her Uncle Brynden that fixes Lord Baelish dead in the eyes. It is not because of the way Sandor will not meet his eyes, or the way Shireen and Mya step away from him whenever they can, or how Podrick makes his best effort to avoid the other airbender- to the point where he will no longer answer summons from Sansa if he believes that Lord Baelish will be there.

The disgust and distrust from every single one of her close compatriots, of course, would always be a reason to have distaste for the man, but there are two primary reasons that Sansa does not trust the man.

The first is the less obvious of the two, at least to anyone other than Sansa- it is that Nymeria and Denna do not trust him. The massive grey direwolf will snarl whenever the mockingbird man comes anywhere close, and the normally friendly Denna will not be in the same room as him willingly. Sansa knows that the two canids are far better judges of character than anyone else in her life.

The second, and the more obvious to anyone paying attention, is the way that Lord Baelish looks at her- like she’s his already, and just doesn’t know it yet. It makes her feel wrong, like there’s a hundred thousand beetles crawling beneath her skin. She feels hunted, and something primal in her wants to chase him away, off her territory, so he can never, ever come anywhere close to touching her ever again.

_ ‘You helped kill my father, and likely my mother, too, and you dare to look at me like I belong to you,’ _ she thinks, rage rising beneath her skin. She itches to cast him out, to send him searching for somewhere else to peddle his flesh and sell his lies and the few whispers he’s managed to pilfer from better webs.

_ ‘Not without proof,’ _ she tells herself,  _ ‘Not without proof.’ _

She is a wolf, forever a wolf, beneath her skin, no matter how much the mockingbird seems to think her a trout. She is fiercely protective of herself and hers, and she will not call such a man a friend for as long as she lives.

Ice-blue eyes drill into Lord Baelish’s head until he begins to shiver and squirm.

_ ‘You are not welcome here,’ _ she tries to tell him through looks alone,  _ ‘We do not want you here. You ran North in disgrace. You have nothing to offer but your poor mastery of coin, and your passable skill in information- something I am sure you would falsify happily if it sent you ahead. I am Queen in the North. I do not need to grovel at your feet, and I never will.’ _

She does not know if Baelish has finally gotten the hint, or if he’s just begun to try an alternative tactic, but she is grateful for the fact that he’s no longer hounding her every step. The tension begins to bleed out of her shoulders, and Kieran, who has never left her side, finally, ever-so-quietly, agrees with her sentiment.

“He desires you,” Kieran says.

“I know. What are you going to say? That I should just give in? Let him have me, for Petyr Baelish would treat me well?”

Kieran scoffs, and stares at her, his golden eyes wide.

“NO! What do you take me for, some sort of weak-willed, easily influenced cretin that would take the temporary satisfaction of some man? Any man, or woman? Sansa, I know you already know this, but please listen- nobody deserves your attentions or affection simply because they’ve been kind, or helpful- even without an ulterior motive, and my memory is not so short besides- Petyr Baelish has never been either of those to you.”

Kieran is right- Sansa had already known what her sworn-sword would say, and she agrees with him wholeheartedly, but she’d needed to hear him say it, say what’s been in her own mind since she’d first felt Baelish’s eyes on her, since she’d first felt how  _ uncomfortable _ it was, to feel unwanted attention.

_ ‘He is not entitled to you,’ _ she tells herself,  _ ‘Nobody is.’ _

“Remember that it goes for you, too, Kieran.”

The bastard boy crinkles his nose.

“You know I don’t see you like that, Your Grace,” he replies. Sansa laughs.

“No, my friend. Kieran, nobody is entitled to  _ you _ , either.”

The firebender cocks his head.

“Oh. Yes, right, that would apply to me too, because it applies for everyone- wow, I am dense, aren’t I?”

Sansa snorts, and Kieran smiles.

“Just as long as we’re in agreement?” she ventures, and he nods.

“Of course, Your Grace. Would you like me to take care of our problem?”

Sansa shakes her head.

“No murder.”

“Not murder, of course not. I just meant irritating him until he leaves of his own accord.”

“That could bring its own set of problems,” Sansa says. She sighs, and stands.

“We should do this properly, if we’re planning to get rid of our mockingbird problem.”

-

Lord Manderly is not weak, and he is not stupid. He has declared fully and publically for the Queen in the North and whoever she might choose to bend the knee to for the sake of her subjects, and he knows exactly what that means.

He also knows that Ramsay Bolton is, while initially more intimidating than his father, a far less significant threat. More malleable. More uncertain.

And so, he taunts the boy, when he visits him in the dungeons, tells him of his stepmother’s pregnancy, of the boy she surely carries, of the love and devotion that the normally cruel Roose deposits upon his young wife (though the second is only speculation, and the last is certainly untrue).

He watches as Ramsay Snow squirms. He makes the man feel small, as small as he can make him feel. He pries and pries and pries.

_ ‘Arya Stark is not yours, fool,’ _ he growls, when Ramsay tries to taunt him back,  _ ‘She is not even on the continent.’ _

Or, sometimes,  _ ‘Your unwillingness to acknowledge gender expression does not endear you to me.’ _

Or, even,  _ ‘I will happily feed you to the wolf before I let a freed you within a mile of my daughters.’ _

He keeps all of this silent. And then, like magic- well, Ramsay certainly doesn’t have to know he did not leave a single death in his wake.

And so, Lord Manderly plots.

And, well, if a king or more should disappear and reappear, as if by magic? If false rumors spread faster than true ones and a bastard grows cocky?

That is none of Lord Manderly’s business.

-

Stannis Baratheon has not returned to the Wall.

Jon wraps his cloak tighter around his shoulders, dark eyes fixed on his hands instead of anywhere else. Sam’s warm shape fits right by his side, but the other Night’s Watchman has stayed silent for quite the time- in fact, he hasn’t said a word in hours, the same amount of time since he’d handed Jon the slip of paper in his hands now.

It’s a companionable silence, the kind forged by brotherhood and a deeper care, the kind that tells Jon that he could happily trust Sam with his life and come out the other end practically unscathed (though he’d rather it be something involving medicine or some other intellectual pursuit- Jon does not doubt that Samwell Tarly had, in fact, killed a white walker with a knife made of dragonglass, unlike the rest of their brothers, but he does know that Sam, if given the choice, would vastly prefer to use his immense capacity for learning to save someone, rather than his meager (if one counts only normal fighting) to moderate (if one counts his fantastic earthbending skill) combat ability).

They both look up as King Stannis’s whiskered and weathered advisor meanders over to them, wondering what in the name of all that is good the man wants with them.

“You know,” Ser Davos says, sliding into a seat right next to Jon, “I’ve met your sister.”

“I know,” Jon says, steadfast in ignoring the man, tucking himself deeper into Sam’s side, a clear message to fuck off.

“She’s quite the force of nature. Could beat me in a waterbending match, I’ll tell you that much.”

“I know. She’s been able to do such things since she was a little girl. Why are you telling me this?”

Ser Davos backs off, for just a moment, concern clear in his eyes.

“Are you alright, lad?”

Jon briefly contemplates lying to the knight, but instead sighs, turns to face the man properly, and stares Ser Davos dead in the eyes.

“No. I’m not.”

He folds the slip of paper with the pink seal over itself once again.

-

Shireen, Sansa, and their ever-present shadows make their way to the gates early in the morning, before the rest of the castle wakes (but not by a significant margin- the sun is quickly rising, and the light is soft, and Wynafryd will soon rise to begin the grueling training sets for her wartime healers). A shelf of earth crawls up the side of the walls, creating easily-scaled stairs that are smoothed back into the ground a moment after they are no longer needed.

Sansa raises her head, and lets her firey mane of hair flow in the breeze as she breathes in the cold sea air.

As she exhales, the sound of cracking ice can be heard from miles away.

On the inhale, the ice recedes, and on the next exhale, it races outwards again.

Shireen knows exactly why the waterbender is doing such a thing. It’s the most blatant power trip that the Queen in the North can play, at the moment, although it’s completely wasted upon the crowd below them, who are used to the sort of antics that the waterbenders (and, really, all the benders- Shireen has not learned from badger-moles just to be quiet and demure and  _ not _ show off her considerable skill) will have.

Most obviously among them is the weathered men that stand at the front of the considerable army of friendlies below them. Shireen hides her smile behind Sansa, who smiles down at her younger and easily pleased friend, who is gripping Sansa’s hand fiercely. Sansa lazily flicks her eyes downwards, smiling at the mounting horror clear on Petyr Baelish’s face.

Shireen doesn’t have to be able to read Sansa’s mind. She doesn’t want to be able to, frankly. She’s not heard much of what Sansa had faced, but she’s heard enough to know that the young woman’s mind is a true minefield, now.

_ ‘When I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,’ _ she thinks to herself,  _ ‘Or the Six- if I ever am- I will protect you, Sansa. I will stand between you and any who would dare hurt you again, because I do not forget my friends, and I will not forget you.’ _

She will never forget the vow she makes on the walls of New Castle, either, for as long as she lives. Shireen only hopes that there will not come a day where she regrets ever deciding to make it.

-

Tommen and Margaery lock eyes, in a little room in the Great Sept of Baelor, where the King’s lovely Queen Consort is being kept.

The dead-eyed boy that Tommen is on the inside wouldn’t normally react, even to Margaery’s now cool, offset demeanor, but there’s something about her, now… something that sets him on edge, deep in his soul, like the most base of his instincts are telling him to run far, far away before she digs her thorns in and hauls him in for the kill.

_ ‘Roses are plants of blood and bone,’ _ he tells himself- he does not know what sparks the memory, but he does know that it fits-  _ ‘They thrive on death. Roses love a graveyard and a battlefield. They are fickle things, but you can grow them with killing.’ _

Looking at Margaery now, he both does and does not believe it. Margaery would never kill for power, that much is certain- she would never kill children, she would never kill just because, she would never kill to send a message- but right now, in the Great Sept of Baelor, where her brother is tortured for loving men and she is imprisoned for trying to save his life from the Faith-

Tommen can believe that this rose would happily crush every Sparrow soul in this gods-forsaken building if she’d be able to escape with her brother.

_ He cannot blame her. She’s not excusing the murder of innocents, she’s not hurting anyone outside the Sept- she just wants  _ out _ , and no-where in Tommen’s heart can he find it in himself to judge her for it. _

And so, instead of paying mind to her plight (Margaery is fully capable of saving herself, Tommen tells himself), he retreats into his head, like he always does- sits in his chair by the window and stares until his eyes go hollow and it is unnerving to simply look at them.

_ ‘Run!’ _ he screams in his head at Margaery, who is clearly snarling under her chains behind her calm, collected façade, ten times the lioness his mother will ever be,  _ ‘Run as far as you can from this gods-damned city, and don’t come back!’ _

But Margaery doesn’t seem the type to back down and run away- she stands her ground to the bitter end, fights until every bit of her is bruised and bleeding, until the whole ground shakes beneath her feet and every single person who would ever harm her (but none else, of course, for Margaery is a kinder woman than most given her powers) learns to fear her as much as Tommen already does.

-

Aegon knows that if they are to win the North to their side, and the Stormlands if they can (for Stannis’s daughter may be flexible- he’s heard the man was a man of honor, and a good father, but his only surviving child is a gentle girl, and a greyscale survivor), they need to act quickly, before the Queen in the North is crushed under the weight of the lions and the flayed men and the krakens, and they’ve lost their opening. Jon grumbles at the idea, but is more than willing to go North if the alternative is an uphill battle against even more kingdoms.

Aegon knows that his foster father and Lord Varys will either push for the Martell marriage that Doran seems to like so much (despite their already existing blood ties), a marriage to his aunt Daenerys (despite their already existing blood ties), or a marriage to the red-headed Queen in the North.

He doesn’t want to tell them that he’s uncomfortable with all of the matches, for various reasons for the first two, and the same underlying reasons for all three- but he will do his duty when the need arises.

If he survives that long.

King Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his Name stares at the massive fleet of ships, direwolves, mermen, and burning stags flying from their banners, and the rapidly freezing and unfreezing bay of White Harbor, and realizes the rumors of King Stannis’s death were either greatly exaggerated, or his daughter is a far more significant military power than any of them had anticipated.

(To be completely honest- the real answer is both).

-

There is something in the air, she can tell. Something, deep, deep down, tells her that the time is right, that there will be no better day. As the sun rises, Queen Margaery Tyrell decides that she will take no more of this indignity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will admit, Margaery's whole escape in 12 isn't as violent as I originally had planned, but it is quite spectacular in theory.
> 
> ALSO: SIX OF MY COLLEGE APPLICATIONS ARE DOOOOONE!!!!!


	12. didn't finish her off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> margaery fucks! shit! up! + rickon & more than one alternate member of the Stark family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why did this update take longer than the others? bc I am stressed.

Loras knows, when the High Sparrow (High Septon, something in his brain corrects, but no, High Sparrow fits better) stands in his doorway, that it’s either now or never- that Margaery will either save him today, or they’ll both be too toothless to mount anything of a defense.

There’s a faint undercurrent of fear in the air, Loras can practically smell it. The High Sparrow walks stiffly, and it’s clear in his eyes, in the way he talks, of trials and atonement and admissions of guilt. Loras drags himself to his feet, and locks eyes with the man.

“You’re going to die, today.”

He knows it’s true. The High Sparrow knows it too, stepping backwards so quickly he practically trips over his own feet.

Loras smiles a poisonous smile. He knows his sister will come for him. He doesn’t know where they’ll go (or maybe he does- maybe he knows exactly where they’ll go). He doesn’t know how Cersei is planning to escape her fate, he just knows that by the time she enacts whatever little plan she has cooking up her sleeves, they’ll be long gone, growing further away by the second.

He knows it for certain when he meets Margaery’s eyes, as he is being led out of his cell. She shrieks “brother!” and runs to him, but there is something about her-

Margaery is all animal under her pretty face. She’s terrified and angry and  _ feral, _ and Loras has always known better than to mix those three qualities in his genius of a sister, but the Faith do not know her. They think her some spineless lady who would keel over like a doormat.

Even without her earthbending, though, Loras knows she would have played calm and kind, sweet smiles and sickly promises until the time came to rip them all to shreds. Margaery Tyrell is the epitome of a lady and a force of nature, and she does not suffer indignities such as this without a response in hand.

But the look in Margaery’s eyes… if Loras wasn’t her brother, one of the people that the look is  _ for, _ he’d be running away, far away.

Because there is something  _ calculating _ in that expression, but like- well, the only way Loras can describe it is that she has calculated her odds, and has decided that the only option is ripping their way out of there, through people if they must. Loras had known he’d find something like it on her face, but- it feels as if she’s cracked, just a little bit, like instead of her usual slip-on-through, she will rage and scream until the whole city crumbles to the ground.

Margaery’s smile is a sickly sweet thing, the kind that makes Loras remember to back down, to not get in her way, for Margaery is not playing at war, anymore.

_ ‘She’s getting us out of here,’ _ Loras thinks,  _ ‘And to the deepest of the seven hells with the Lannister alliance. She doesn’t care.’ _

Loras doesn’t know how Margaery is planning to detonate this, how she’s going to go off- like wildfire, explosive and angry, or like regular fire- longer and slower, but no less damaging?

Loras knows his prior meeting with Sansa Stark might come in handy, right about now.

-

There is a sound almost like that of a strangled cat, once King Aegon (thankfully, he’s not a Collecter of Titles as his aunt seems to be). Kieran, who has stayed relatively stoic in the past several years she’s known him (at least with company- he’s a far different young man outside of such things, and then, it’s not so hard to believe that he’s only five or six or so years older than Sansa is), thunks his head upon the long table.

It appears to have been Mya who made the odd noise, Kieran simply reacting to it. Sansa wonders when both of her guards dropped a decade in maturity.

“Thank  _ fuck _ that didn’t take forever,” she catches Mya whispering, and stares at the Baratheon bastard with dead eyes.

“Mya, I do appreciate your opinion and your insight, but if you’re going to actively attempt to embarrass the North in front of potential political allies, I will have to ask you to leave the room,” leaves her mouth in less than a moment. Kieran makes a strangled sound near identical to the first, and Sansa realizes that it’s him trying to contain himself. He’s not doing a particularly good job of it. Sansa turns back around to face the so-called King of the Iron Throne.

“My apologies. Though they may not look it at the moment, the man to my immediate left can talk some excellent strategy, and the woman to his can put up more of a fight than any man I’ve ever met.”

King Aegon, though- he smiles warmly, and laughs, instead. His eyes are fixed on Kieran, curious. She wonders if he’s a bender, and he recognizes a kindred spirit, he’s just intrigued by the Moran bastard, or both.

Sansa’s grateful that it seems that their interaction hasn’t been spoiled.

“Of course, the North will set the same terms that we did for King Stannis- that we have something of a flayed men and lion problem, and if you’d be willing to help us rid ourselves of the Boltons- or  _ Bolton, _ singular, now, I hear- we’d be grateful to assist you.”

“I’d like to meet with Stannis, if I can. He is the rightful heir to Storm’s End, after all, and if he can persuaded to unite our forces in exchange for the Stormlands as he should have had from the start, we have a far more significant force to liberate the North with, though it may not be enough- the Golden Company are needed further south, after all, and with them are most of my forces.”

_ ‘Why be honest about your weaknesses?’ _ Sansa wonders. Kieran’s snapped to attention by her side, eyes razor-focused.

“What about the Wildlings?” he asks.

Attention snaps to him, now.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re fleeing South. From what we have heard, Stannis has given them permission to- according to your own great-great-gran-uncle, Maester Aemon- flee White Walkers and the risen dead to the North of them,” Sansa says, cutting in. She can tell exactly what Kieran means.

More men.

And if the War of Winter is truly upon them, they’ll need the Wildlings to stay alive, either way.

-

Rickon whimpers, in the dungeons.

He’s trapped, in his own family’s home, no less. It’s an insult beyond insults, same as the pelt of Shaggydog that hangs on the wall. He spends longer and longer away from this body, now, instead hiding in the eyes of birds or other creatures.

Sometimes, he is one of Ramsay’s dogs, fierce and angry and full of hatred for the man who keeps her hungry. Sometimes, he is one of the birds in the rookery, cold and wet and shivering. Sometimes, he sends his head further and further away- into the body of one wolf in a dozen, sleeping by the feet of a man with a half-melted face, or a great hawk that fluffs out warm feathers over her young, high up in a tower.

Sometimes, he throws his mind even further, and sees Bran.

It’s not  _ quite _ Bran, though- it is a being of light and multitudes, with over a hundred faces all talking over each other. Bran stands in the front, of course, confused and overwhelmed. Rickon extends his hands forwards, and Bran grips tightly to them.

_ Help me, _ Rickon wants to scream.

Bran shakes his head.

Rickon wakes to darkness, but there’s a light in his eyes.

At a flick of his wrist, the ice around him turns back to water.

-

Arya holds herself steady, eyes like chips of deep-ice.

She adjusts her stance, and looks right into the eyes of her would-be killer. Her hands are outstretched in front of her, and the other girl- Arya has always  _ assumed _ the Waif is a girl, but she doesn’t know- holds a weapon tightly in her hands.

Arya slowly backs toward the canals. The Waif’s stolen eyes widen even more than usual, and she rushes forwards, as if she’s suddenly aware of what Arya is planning to do.

Arya spins on a dime, and jumps into the water.

_ ‘I’d like to see you try to out-maneuver me in my own element,’ _ Arya thinks smugly. She’s not so smug when she begins to choke, the air bubble she’s made for herself shrinking and shrinking as she’s raised in a water-bubble up into the sky.

Arya wriggles. The Waif may have caught her by surprise, but, out of the two of them, Arya is the finer waterbender. She is fierce, and she is fully capable of sending every strike the Waif sends her direction back towards her. Arya rounds on her feet like Brynden had taught her, and runs back more and more towards the harbor, towards the sea.

The Waif might be perfectly good at precision waterbending, but Arya is more powerful by a significant margin, and the waves crest higher and higher behind her.

She feels something twist in her skin, and quiets it.

“You can’t touch me with that,” Arya tells the Waif, “But I can hurt you.”

She lashes forwards, ice following her hands. All of her training with the Faceless Men leaves her in an instant, replaced by Brienne’s strong hands and Nymeria’s endless energy and Uncle Brynden’s cool, collected tutelage.

The Waif may be excellent, may be quick upon her feet, but in an all-out brawl, Arya has the upper hand, and she claims it easily.

Up until, of course, the Waif gets in a series of hits to Arya’s arms.

Cheating, Arya thinks, and hits back, before running like hell, grabbing Needle along the way, and races for a close, dark hiding place.

By the time the Waif reaches her, chi flows through her whole body again, and she can feel every pulse of the blood in the other girl’s veins.

_ ‘I have you now,’ _ Arya thinks. She’s right.

She brings the Waif’s face back to the man who wears the face of a man once called Jaqen H’ghar, and stands her ground, locking eyes and daring him to try to take her on.

She locks eyes with him, and tells him her name, then turns tail, and leaves.

Across the Narrow Sea, a woman with moon-like eyes and deep grooves across her cheeks makes a choked noise, as she fiddles with a crown of bronze and iron, made for a son who did not wear it for very long.

-

Weeks before a letter sealed with pink reaches the Wall, Reek knows the little boy, and the little boy knows Reek.

The little boy is a savage thing, with anger in his voice and lightning in his eyes. Reek fears him, to a degree, but something in the back of his head itches  _ save him. _

“Theon?” the boy asks, when Reek brings him a scrap of bread and soup. Reek jerks backwards. He'd heard that name, before, had spoken it, even.

“Reek! My name is Reek!” he screams in a shuddering shout. His old wounds ache. The boy narrows his steel-grey eyes.

“Alright, Reek,” he says, “Could you come closer? You look a bit like an old friend of mine- I just want to see what the differences are.”

Reek steps forwards, cautiously. There is a black wolf’s pelt on the wall.

He  _ remembers  _ that wolf.

“Shaggy,” he whispers, voice more gentle and calm than it's been in years. His eyes fix on the boy’s, and he  _ remembers. _

“Rickon,” he says, “so sorry! Reek was bad, Reek was very bad!”

Rickon grabs Reek’s wrist tightly.

“Your name is Theon Greyjoy,” he growls, “and you will  _ get me out of here. _ ”

Reek whimpers, but there's something familiar in the touch, something that rises from behind the pain, stronger and wilder than it will ever be.

“My name is Rickon Stark,” the boy says, “I am Prince in the North, and, if my brother does not live, I have deferred my rights in favor of my sister. Take me to her.”

_ ‘The King is dead,’ _ Reek, who was once Theon, thinks, ‘ _ This is my boy, now. And hers.’ _

Ramsay will hurt the boy until he breaks or dies, that much Reek knows.

But.

_ But. _

If they can escape this place, run further and further south until the Boltons can no longer touch them- maybe then, Reek and Little Rickon (who is not so little anymore) will be safe.

The Wild Pup growls in the low light of the dungeons.

The bars on the cell freeze until they crack and splinter, a thousand tiny pieces of iron rushing into the cold.

-

There is a whisper, among the trees, a cold Northern wind that races through the camp of the Brotherhood Without Banners. Lady Stoneheart raises clouded eyes to the sky, and clutches tighter around the crown.

Something will come south, she knows, running faster and faster and faster until they’re untouchable, moving far, far away from those who would dare even attempt to bring them any harm. Lady Stoneheart smiles, unnerving eyes knowing in a way that sets Thoros of Myr off. The Red Priest keeps himself close to the bones of the once one-eyed Beric, shuddering whenever Lady Stoneheart’s keen eyes flicker over him again.

_ “Little Prince,”  _ Stoneheart rasps. Thoros jumps at her voice, something he’s rarely heard since she’d come back to a semblance of life,  _ “The Little Prince comes south.” _

Thoros frowns.   
“Lady Stoneheart,” he says, voice as soft as he can make it, and resists a cringe or a flinch when the corpse-woman turns, “Do you wish to ride North to your daughter?”   
_ “Sansa? Sansa Queen?” _ she hisses, eyes gone wide. She clutches the iron crown closer to her chest.

“Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, yes,” he says, holding crumpled paper in his hands. The former Lady Stark sits back, pleased with this development, and tilts her head.

_ “North. Wait for Prince.” _

And, just like that, the Brotherhood starts North, a new purpose upon their hands. Frankly, Thoros has absolutely no idea as to why they haven’t gone North earlier, to serve Lady Stark’s daughter, but he doesn’t make a sound, instead taking Beric’s bones with them, in a bag, as they head North. He will return them to Beric’s brother, the teenaged Jorrel, and his betrothed, Allyria, when Thoros himself returns, or he will pass the bones to Edric Dayne, Beric’s equally teenaged squire, if Thoros cannot make the journey.

_ ‘Curse that man, _ ’ he thinks,  _ ‘For giving the gift of life to a half-corpse instead of using it like he should have.’ _

They leave the Riverlands behind. It sits poorly in Thoros’s stomach to do such a thing- to abandon the people that have counted on them for protection in these last few years- but there are fewer raiding parties, now, fewer bandits, since the War of the Five Kings has become the Three Kings and a Queen and none of them are particularly intent upon doing battle in the Riverlands.

And so, Thoros of Myr reluctantly follows the near-mute Lady Stoneheart on her way North, clutching the bones of Lord Dondarrion like a small child would a security blanket as he does so.

He hopes they'll find her children, he really does, but the only confirmed rumors of survival lay in the Red Wolf and her little grey sister, and there have not been any sightings of the latter for an age.

(Thoros won't give up on the girl, though. She's a tough one, Arya Stark is.)

-

Not for the first time, Sansa wonders exactly what Lord Manderly gets out of sheltering her here, out of championing her claim. And then she sees Wynafryd and Wylla, and remembers- had she not been here, had there not been the highest of grounds to shut the Freys out, they may have bartered for his beautiful grand-daughters, to add to their own collection. The mere fact that Sansa must suppress a growl at the fact shows Lord Manderly’s genius- he's turned the Merman’s Court into the closest friends of the Queen in the North, has provided a warm ear, simply because he knows the wrath of the Starks, and knows that other Houses will fear them too.

Not to mention- if Sansa is Queen in the North, over, say, a Stark cadet branch, it gives Manderly cause to seat Wynafryd in his seat after him and his son are gone. And Sansa will grant it to her, happily, because she trusts and cares for Wynafryd, because she knows her value as a healer and a commander, and because Wynafryd is her  _ friend. _

_ ‘And it is time to repay the Manderlys for the hospitality they have shown me, time to show they were right for choosing me as Queen,’ _ she thinks.

She looks to Denna.

“I do believe,” she says, voice soft as she looks into the eyes of her polar-bear dog, as dark and as shining as dragonglass, “That it is time to remind the Boltons and the Lannisters that the North Remembers.”

_ ‘Tywin and Roose are dead,’ _ she thinks, ‘ _ So funny, it is, that the men who were the brightest and most terrible of their Houses are the only ones with anything of a mind for proper warfare.’ _

Her white beast barks. It is not her usual puppy-bark- Denna is a little more than three years old, now, and her bark has morphed into something deep and terrible, and the polar-bear dog has grown large enough that she can carry Sansa upon her back. Her enormous paw scrapes at Sansa’s hands, and the Queen in the North rather feels like she is kissing the hand of a lady.

Denna steps back, and Sansa stands, quite a bit shorter than her enormous mount.

“Are you ready?” she whispers, something that is not malice, but not kindness, either, glittering in her eyes.

_ Justice, _ her brother would call it.

_ Vengeance, _ her father would say. She knows it will frighten her allies, will frighten Baelish, too (though she wants to frighten him, wants to watch him squirm), but she does not care.

Her head spins to the sound of bells.

-

Margaery wants to make the Sept crash to the ground, crumpling like a great beehive. Loras, her sweet brother, convinces her to avoid such a thing, by telling her of the Wildfire in the deepest crypts in this gods-damned place. She knows what Wildfire is like, that it only gains potency with age, and that the Substance deep in the Crypts must be at least two decades old, if not older, from previous bouts of Aerys’s madness.

Instead, Margaery decides that she will make something of a show of it.

_ ‘Let them think that the gods have forsaken them,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘They certainly have not forsaken  _ me.’

Her brother gives a smile at her, at that, but it isn’t soft, like it might have been, before their confinement. Instead, it is wide and bright and feral, like some sort of beast or the shining thorns of a rose.

_ ‘I suppose it is fitting,’ _ she thinks. Her mother has already gone North, and her father knows to abandon the city as soon as he can, but to stay for long enough to claim pretense. Margaery knows what she will say, how she will act, once she runs as far as her legs will let her.

_ ‘The Young King is a puppet of a Faith Militant that held me prisoner,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘I will have my marriage dismissed by whomever will allow me, or the High Septon will convince Tommen to set me aside, once I’ve wrecked his Sept and the walls of this cursed city.’ _

The High Sparrow brings them into the main area of the Sept. Margaery stares at the almost-glowing stained-glass windows, and smiles, stamping her foot down on the ground with a terrible (or wonderful, depending on who one asks)  _ crack. _

Those beautiful glass windows shatter like the glass that they are, but the more magical thing- what will have the people of King’s Landing whispering for years upon years afterwards- is how a great crack opened up in the side of the Sept of Baelor, how the crack stretched from the Sept to Blackwater Bay, how the very earth itself defied the High Sparrow to spare Queen Margaery and her sweet brother any more horrors.

Miraculously, none die. Margaery smiles as she steps onto a ship headed North. She is happy to shed her Queenship in favor of not facing any more of  _ that. _

Hopefully, Queen Sansa will be willing to take a golden rose in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time to continue working on college applications... *sigh*. Am doing youth nanowrimo this year, which is cool. Oh, also, since Denna is three-four ish, I'm guessing she's big enough to ride and therefore big enough to fuck someone's shit up easily.


	13. if only, if only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sansa wargs Denna and also... littlefinger is a piece of garbage!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoaaa I'm alive!

Shireen doesn’t trust Littlefinger.

She doesn’t know why. If his heartbeat is any indication, he has been telling the truth since the day he came, but,  _ but- _

Shireen does not trust him (not like she trusts the others, not like she trusts Wylla, who she's not seen for months). He feels oily, slimy, to her, like an eel or some sort of slick. It has nothing to do with how her father feels about his… business, truly, but Shireen, personally, is of the opinion that someone going into such a business should be willing to sell their own flesh if they’re willing to sell the flesh of others.

Well, she hates the idea of all of it, if she’s to be honest with herself, but hates men like Littlefinger most of all, especially knowing, deep down, that if one were to mention such a thing to the man, he would argue that there are none like him.

_ ‘But there are so many,’ _ she thinks, ‘ _ you are a man who feels entitled to a throne and a crown and Queen Sansa’s affections simply because you feel the world owes you for your own stupid mistakes. There are a million men like you, Petyr Baelish. You are not uncommon at all.’ _

She may not be able to feel Littlefinger’s heartbeat, but she certainly can feel Queen Sansa’s, and she can feel Queen “Please, just Margaery, I want to distance myself as far as I can from that terrible iron chair” Margaery  _ Tyrell _ ’s.

They're like the little hearts of hummingbirds, or the frantic beating of mice- like a tiny, tiny heart working as hard as it can to power a frightfully active creature. She almost can't tell the individual beats from one another. Shireen thinks, again, that it feels like a hummingbird- like the wings of one, perhaps. The pink-headed Anna’s Hummingbird, named for an Arryn in the Vale, if she remembers correctly, is a likely candidate for Sansa’s hammer-strong heartbeat, while Shireen knows from her birder’s books that there are so many hummingbirds from the Reach that it would be impossible to choose one for  _ Lady _ Margaery.

Olenna looks to Shireen with a stiff, but somehow still warm, smile. Shireen looks around her, and finally sees why the Tyrell woman would be concerned.

A  _ trueborn  _ Baratheon, a false one by marriage, a Targaryen claimant to the Iron Throne, and the Queen of Winter are all in the same room, and they're getting on quite well.

Baelish is concerned, too. His heart rate has finally jumped, in the way it never does when he lies, and he looks between Sansa and Margaery with fear in the back of his eyes. Shireen gets to her feet. King Aegon follows her, understanding clear in his soft blue eyes.

_ ‘Blue. Not violet,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘Blue.’ _

Something seems to click for Brienne, too, but the swordswoman says nothing, just shifts uncomfortably. Ser Loras’s face screws up uncomfortably when he recognizes her, but he says nothing of it.

_ ‘You loved Uncle Renly,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘You loved him with all your heart, and Melisandre took him from you. Yes, I know that much, at least.’ _

There's one last surprise the Tyrells have to offer, it seems.

“Widow’s Wail, he called it,” Margaery says, voice screaming distaste, as the rippling blade is revealed, “I renamed it, had the pommel replaced by something more dignified. Retribution.”

It is fitting. Shireen isn't a metalworker, but she admires the simplicity of the new pommel, the utilitarian grip. The name reminds her of Lamentation, the lost Royce sword.

“Fitting, I suppose, for half of Ice.”

The hall goes silent at that. Sansa stands, and accepts the sword. She swings it once, twice. Shireen, with a careful eye, notes how the Queen in the North is far more muscular than any of them have realized.

-

Rickon, Jeyne, and Theon (Reek, he says, but to Rickon, he will always be Theon) head South with no Shaggy and no Osha (something that sits wrong in Rickon’s stomach, that they’d abandoned his friend like that, that the Bolton bastard had skinned his wolf and skinned his guardian). There’s a little pull East, towards the Manderlys he  _ knows _ have crowned his sister, but instead… but instead, they all head South, towards a stronger pull, passing the old castles of the Neck and ruined keeps and deep marshes, until they come across a woman with too-keen eyes and deep gouges in her face and a rattling breath, a woman that Rickon would know everywhere. He shouts, cries, run towards the frail half-corpse, who raises a hand to her decrepit mouth. Rickon wouldn’t care if she was half-rotted- her soul still lives, somewhere in there, even if it’s only halfway, and as long as she is such a thing, she’s his mother.

Lady Stoneheart wraps bone-thin fingers into his hair, cries tearless sobs into his shirt, and wraps him tightly in her arms. Then, she releases him, and stands.

_ “Little King.” _

It is not a question, but Rickon still shakes his head.

“Bran is alive, last I’ve seen- beyond the Wall. And we agreed that Sansa would be a better Queen than we Kings anyways.”

Lady Stoneheart pushes an iron-and-bronze crown into his hands. It is covered in blood and hair, which he washes off with a wave of his hand, sure to take the dirt and grime and the rest of the water with it. Now, it gleams, dark and sharp and terrible.

_ “For Sans. Bring.” _

He understands, and raises a hand to his mother’s face.

“Come with us.”

Lady Stoneheart grips his hand in all ten of her bony fingers, and smiles. Rickon is surprised to see that her teeth are whiter than they’d ever been while Lady Catelyn Stark was alive the first time. But, now that he realizes it, he sees that they’re sharper, too. Like his, Rickon supposes.

_ “Will,” _ Lady Stoneheart says, eyes warm, somehow. She raises one hand from Rickon’s and buries it in his hair. Rickon doesn’t think his mother can cry, anymore, but she looks close enough to it for him.

They head North and East that very same day. His mother stays as close to Rickon as she dares, eyes wild. The men that follow her look at Rickon with strange expressions upon their faces, but don’t question it otherwise. What has become more Theon recently and Lady Stoneheart seem more than uncomfortable with one another, but Rickon and Jeyne are more than happy to step in between them if need be.

They start just north of the Neck, and from there, White Harbor and New Castle are not much of a distance. Rickon holds tight to Theon’s hand. Theon, on the other hand, keeps looking West.

“You’re going to the Kingsmoot, aren’t you?” Rickon asks. Theon nods.

“I need to make sure Asha’s safe,” he whispers. Rickon nods.

“Go. Mother will protect me and Jeyne from here.”

Theon’s nod is a shaky one, but it is still a nod. He is gone before morning light.

-

_ He smells like lies. _

_ It’s the first thing she notices, in her fur. The polar bear dog raises her shining white head and snarls, a deep, low sound that makes Baelish take a step back, and another, and another. She does not know why he was in her rooms, does not know how he’d gotten in, but she does know why he was staring, why he is obsessed, why he will not leave her alone, and it  _ sickens _ her. _

_ In Denna’s voice, she snarls. The polar bear dog can barely fit through the doorway, now, and her heavy claws take an easy swipe at Baelish. _

I do not trust you, _ she wants to scream,  _ I will never trust you. And you cannot have me.

_ Nymeria takes initiative, now, rushing forwards with a snarl. Baelish high-tails it away from there, like a startled wren. Sansa and Denna watch with their shared blue now but dark come morning eyes as their yellow-eyed sister returns- but she is not yellow-eyed now. Instead, there is silver, and Nymeria gives a gentle chuff that Sansa recognizes, and Denna has never known. _

‘Arya,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘I have Arya to thank.’

_ Her silver-sister nods, and sniffs at Denna-Sansa, and their shared blue eyes and their soft, canine smile and their massive front paws and thin back legs. Sansa and Denna have not noticed before, have not noticed that while Nymeria is big- the size of a large pony, perhaps, certainly large enough for Arya to ride when she comes back, if she ever does, as long as she hasn’t gotten that much bigger than she was before she left- Denna is much, much bigger, the size of a courser, at least, and several times as strong and agile, thanks to her massive bulk. _

_ Sansa will have to have a saddle made for her, when she is awake, again. She will not squander this gift. _

-

Baelish is found the next morning, shaking like a leaf. He looks to Sansa with pleading, desperate eyes. She narrows her own, clutching tightly to the message he'd left on her bedside table. Treason, to say the least of it. Mya had heard her ranting about it earlier, and is glad to see she's composed herself up to her normal standards.

Mya takes a cautious look at both of them, and squeezes her Queen’s hand in sympathy, before hobbling back to her own standard position. King Aegon gives her a curious stare, while Princess Shireen and Lady Margaery simply nod.

“I do believe,” Queen Sansa says, taking a seat next to Lord Manderly, “We all have something to discuss. In the forefront of all of these things, of course, is the one issue that I will take at its word from Lord Baelish- unfortunately, King Aegon, we have no actual confirmation of your legitimacy.”

Jon Connington, to Aegon’s side, sputters angrily. Aegon’s eyes widen, but he stays silent, letting the red-headed man speak for him.

“My Lady-”

“Your Grace. At the moment, Queen Sansa is the acting ruler of the North, and as we have not seen it fit to join any of your causes yet, she retains the title,” Lord Manderly growls. Mya is struck by the fact that while the man may be large, in no way is he incapable of a fight, and he certainly looks it now, with his shoulders bunched the way we are. Connington grits his teeth, and Lady Margaery looks on, concerned.

“ _ Your Grace,” _ he growls, “I have raised the King since he was a small child-”

“But not since infancy, Lord Connington,” Sansa says, inclining her head, “And, while I do not doubt that King Aegon is Valyrian, there are no shortages of Valyrians in Essos, and the gods only know how much those families interbred. Not to mention, I do believe the female line of the Blackfyres is more than intact. The simple fact is, the most reliable claims, that I can confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt, are those of King Aegon’s supposed aunt, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, and his supposed second cousin once removed, King Stannis Barathon.”

Mya blinks.

_ ‘How does she know this?’ _ Mya wonders. Baelish smiles, faintly, and it clicks.

_ ‘He’s brought it up to her, but instead of going back on her word to these people, she’s decided to bring it up to them directly. She supports either Daenerys or Shireen, but if Aegon can prove his legitimacy, she is willing to put them aside.’ _

“I-”

“King Aegon, this war began because three king’s heirs were not who they said they were,” Sansa says, “Forgive me if I am not exactly  _ willing _ to place my kingdom on the back of someone who cannot, for certain, prove their claim.”

“I am a  _ firebender _ of House Targaryen,” he says, letting flames collect in his hands, “Firebending was only introduced into the family via the blood of the Martells and Dyanna Dayne.”

Sansa’s eyes soften.

“Your Grace, I wish it dearly for your claim to be true,” she says, “But nothing that you say is absolute confirmation until I have an established chain of custody- for the same reason the trial of Tyrion Lannister was a complete farce. Words are wind. I need  _ documentation. _ Of course, I, as I did earlier, offer you the same that I did to your cousin- help us defeat the Boltons and the threat north of the Wall, and the North will gladly offer you aid.”

_ ‘Oh,’ _ Mya thinks,  _ ‘You just need to get it out into the open. You were never planning to draw your support from the combined effort of the three of them- you just wanted to let them know what you know. Let them know you are trustworthy.’ _

Connington snarls, again, but King Aegon nods gracefully.

“And why, pray tell, did you bring this up now, if you are not going to do anything about it?”

“Because I need you to understand why Lord Baelish does not belong here, and that everything that spews from his mouth is to further his own agenda,” Sansa replies easily, and turns her attention to the quivering man. Denna snarls, so loudly that the glass in the windows shakes.

“Now, I wonder,” Sansa says, every inch a Queen despite how soft her voice is, “what Lord Baelish has to gain from turning us all against one another?”

Connington’s next snarl is wilder, and he almost reaches for his sword. King Aegon raises a hand, as do Princess Shireen, who locks eyes with her guardians, and Lady Margaery, who holds her brother by the shoulders to keep him from joining the fray.

Mya stares at Gendry, who’s grabbed a sledgehammer from the door, at Shireen, who narrows her eyes and stamps a foot to the ground, a rumbling sound coming from deep within the keep, and Margaery, who warps metal in and out of her fingers.

Mya smiles. It is a feral thing.

-

Missandei’s eyes flicker to Grey Worm. The screams of the dragons echo below them. She wonders when their Queen will return, on dragonback, resplendent like a heroine from a song.

Missandei knows it’s desperate and more than a little childish to think in such a way, but Missandei clings to the remaining scraps of her long-past childhood with whatever strength that she has left. She wants, so desperately, to believe that there is one person, one woman who is a true hero, like from a story she was told as a little, little girl.

The riots rage outside. The Sons of the Harpy wreak havoc upon the city, and Missandei realizes, with a jolt, that they have made a  _ terrible _ miscalculation.

_ ‘We should never have let the slavers stay within the city,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘And we never should have let the non-slaving freemen believe that they are anything less than the masters.’ _

“Tyrion,” she calls, before the man leaves to speak with the masters, “Be prepared to put up a fight. If we allow slavery back, we will lose all the ground we have gained. Keep the people free.”

The man blinks, once, and nods. Missandei pushes past him with a snort, and moves down the Pyramid.

-

Jon’s scars ache as he stands to face his men. Well. Not  _ his _ men, not anymore. Ghost growls beside him. Jon pushes past them, ready to leave.

_ ‘Where will you go?’ _ he asks himself, then snorts. Tormund watches, eyes careful, as do the rest of the Free Folk he’s brought with him.

“We’re heading East,” Jon says easily, “Then South. To White Harbor.”

“What’s in fucking White Harbor?” Tormund laughs. Jon blinks.

“My sister.”

The men around him go quiet, as do the spearwives.

“Any army?”

“The rest of Stannis’s forces, and if the last letter is to be believed, more than just that.”

“How much more?” Tormund asks. There’s a light in his eyes, now, a light that Jon is not quite sure he likes.

“I have absolutely no idea, but I’m going South. I’ve been away from my family for far too long.”

-

“Myrcella!” her father calls. Myrcella picks up her skirts and runs towards Obara.

“I don’t want to go back to my Mother,” she hisses. Obara blinks, and nods, setting her jaw and grabbing her spear. Myrcella keeps running. She has to find Ellaria, or Arianne. Either would protect her in a heartbeat- with words, instead of spears like Obara- and she needs that protection, right now.

_ ‘I  _ cannot _ go back North, _ ’ she thinks,  _ ‘I’ll die if I go North. There is no way Mother can win this war, or my brother, and I would rather live my days in Dorne, hidden away, then claim a crown that’s killed so many.’ _

She knows it’s a cowardly choice, but she is  _ happy _ here, and she will not let anyone, her father or no, rip her away from Dorne. She knows it’s childish, hiding behind Ellaria’s skirts, but she does not care if it is such, it is what she will do.

“Myrcella, are you alright?” she hears a voice call from up ahead, and sighs in relief.

_ Ellaria. _

She grips her tightly in a hug, and turns back towards her father and her uncle’s sellsword, who tips his head and raises his hands in response to Obara’s spear at his throat.

“Yes. Fine. I don’t want to go North.”

Ellaria cocks her head.

“Why would you be going North?” she asks. Myrcella’s father moves as if to speak, but Ser Bronn of the Blackwater sends him a dark look, and he falls silent.

“According to one-hand here, the Queen received a message from Dorne, threatening her daughter. We were sent to bring her back, to assure the girl’s safety.”

“You were already here, saying such things, not too long ago. Why have you returned? You already know we do not hurt little girls in Dorne. You already know Myrcella does not wish to leave.”

Ellaria’s hand tightens on Myrcella’s shoulder protectively.

“Aye, but Her Grace has become increasingly concerned. You see, King Tommen has taken a nasty fall, and there is only one Baratheon child left.”

“Two,” Myrcella says. Her father blinks, confused.

“Shireen,” she explains, and he nods in understanding. She hides her fear at the news. Tommen is dead- or, at least, seriously injured. She clings more tightly to Ellaria, despite the whispering in the back of her head berating her for clinging to her protector like a frightened child.

“Ser, I do believe you should be leaving, now,” Ellaria says, poised and cold. Myrcella smiles, weaves past her, and runs onwards to Trystane.

_ ‘Once I marry him,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘Mother cannot touch me.’ _

She smiles at the thought.

-

There is a great knocking at the door. Queen Sansa composes herself once more, and beckons someone- anyone- to answer it.

The doors slide open, and the gasps begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has taken quite a while thanks to college apps and nanowrimo, BUT it's here! And 14 is on the way bc It's Done but I have to take care of 15 first.  
Also! It seemed only right for the Starks to end up with at least 1/2 of Ice. I know that Brienne will probably give them back Oathkeeper in the end but I want one to be unquestionably Stark. And Sansa getting it from the Tyrells specifically, as a completely selfless gift, endears them to her after they've sided with the Lannisters.  
Also!!! Sansa meets Margaery and they are gone on each other IMMEDIATELY. these versions of sansa and margaery have Muscles and you cannot tell me otherwise


	14. cries to the moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blue Spirit is a thing in this AU, and also, Lady Lysa FUCKS SHIT UP

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the end notes they are VERY important

Sansa rubs between her eyes. The woman in the middle of the room preens like a peacock, but Sansa really just wants to kill her. The older woman who stands beside her, however- she is kinder, with a face that reminds Sansa of her mother, and deep red hair.

Aunt Lysa.

“I see you've found my errant husband,” the Lady of the Vale says, voice clipped. Sansa tips her head to the woman, who continues, “or, I should say, my errant ex-husband.”

“Lysa-”

“That is Lady Arryn to you, Lord Baelish,” she snaps.

“Lady Baelish-”

“I said EX husband, did I not? I am setting a precedent. I wrote to a high septon and several of our fellow Vale lords. They agree that attempted murder of one’s own children is grounds for divorce.”

“Divorce?” Lord Baelish asks, faintly confused.

“Yes. Legal separation. I am free to wed whom I wish. And free to execute you, as well. Queen Sansa, I would ask to be allowed to do this in mine own name- Petyr Baelish has harmed us all, but he has harmed me more than most.”

Sansa hums, voice curious, and indicates that her aunt should continue. She wants to hear this.

“Drag him, Lady Lysa,” she hears Kieran whisper-cheer. In the corner of her eye, Mya nods along with him.

“This man,” Lysa Tully Arryn says, back strong and blue eyes bright, “Sold my good-brother out for the false thought of my sister’s love. He has always been the manipulative sort. He has sold children like cattle. He killed my husband, and almost forced me to do the deed myself. He poisoned my son. He tried to kill my youngest children- his own children. He is of the vilest of men. He is a serpent, only in service to himself. Once upon a time, I was a little girl who craved his attention. He used that, made me weak. Made me his creature.”

Here, Lady Lysa pauses.

“Petyr Baelish has always forgotten that I am Tully, and I am Arryn, long before I am of his like. Family, duty, honor, and family comes first. It is my duty and my honor to swear my cause to my niece’s- my family’s- in the place of my son.”

Now, Sansa stands, every inch a queen.

“I accept your fealty, Lady Lysa.”

“Lysa is fine, Your Grace. I am your aunt, after all.”

“Then I would have you call me Sansa, Aunt Lysa,” she says, and offers a seat to the woman. The young woman beside her cocks her head.

“Hello, Your Grace,” she says, voice smooth. A smile flickers across Sansa’s face despite herself.

“Hello, Wylla. I was wondering where you’ve been.”

“Collecting. How have you been, Your Grace?”

“Well, thank you. The missing half of Ice has been returned to me by the Lady Margaery, and a traitor and attempted child murderer is to be dealt with. I do believe this is a good day, Lady Wylla.”

Sansa lets Retribution catch the sunlight. The waving patterns of Valyrian Steel reflect across the hall.

“It's good to see you too. Now, I do believe we have a flayed man to kill?”

“Aye,” Sansa says, and dips her head, tossing red locks over a shoulder.

-

Arya lifts her head into the wind, and resists the urge to howl. The sea-breeze is crisp, and her grip on Needle is tight enough she might be worried she’d break the little sword.

Even this far away from her sister, she can  _ feel _ her- wilder and stronger than she’s ever been- and she can feel Nymeria, poised and strong with a wolf pack large enough to give an army pause.

She can feel Nymeria and, through her, Bran’s wolf and Ghost and the massive white beast that Sansa now calls her own.

Arya doesn’t know  _ how _ she knows, she just does.

“So, you’re going to White Harbor?” a voice asks. Arya looks down. The girl is soft, wide-eyed. Arya smiles at her.

“Not quite, sweet thing. I am going to pick up a few things in the South, first.”

She’s gotten softer, on this trip. Gulltown nears, flags flapping in the wind. The surge of homesickness that hits Arya is a painful one.

_ ‘It does not matter how many people I have to kill,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘As long as I harm no innocents, I will get home, and I will make sure home stays home. Winter is coming, after all.’ _

Arya lifts her chin higher, resisting the urge to cry in relief. Her grip tightens even more around Needle, if that is possible, and she looks Westwards, towards the Riverlands, and the  _ Freys. _

“I’m going home. And nothing is going to stop me from doing that,” she vows. The little girl beside her nods encouragingly, and goes to yell at her brothers for something or another. Arya stares at them, something uncomfortable bubbling up in her chest.

_ ‘What will Sansa and Jon think of me now?’ _ she wonders,  _ ‘A killer and a lost girl, back from across the sea?’ _

_ They will think you a sister, _ a comforting voice whispers in her. Arya moves her hands from Needle to the railing, and breathes in the smell of land and the sound of sea-birds in the air.

-

There’s a flicker of recognition, in Zahara Moran’s ice-blue eyes. The woman looks so much like her nephew that it almost makes her want to ignore all of the proceedings- Kieran is a friend of hers for a reason.

“My first daughter is at the Twins and my second is in the dungeons of Winterfell,” the Lady of Mistheart says, voice raw, “My brother is at the Twins as well. My apologies, your grace, but I have been unable to come to your aid until recently. Only my younger daughters were safe.”

“And what has changed recently, that you may come to my aid now?”

“Something happened in Winterfell’s dungeons- I know not what, but it gave my daughter enough time to escape. Alexandria and Avir are still held at the Twins, but Rivka is more than enough to gather our own bannermen to our cause- at least, when she has Zira and the rest of her sisters to back her up, not to mention my eldest’s four children.”

Sansa tilts her head. Zahara is just a hair older than her father would have been. She remembers a quiet joke, in the halls, of how the woman had wed in the eyes of the gods, but none could remember her husband’s name, and the later jokes, about how her youngest daughters were not from a wedded union at all.

She remembers the Lady Alexandria, though, at the feast for the King, remembers a tall, broad-shouldered woman wed to Torrhen Karstark, with a bright smile and a short temper. She has no doubts that if she’d been with Robb, at the Twins, she would have fought as hard and long as she could.

Beside Lady Zahara is a Mormont woman. Sansa does not remember her name, but her smile is bright.

“We march on Winterfell as soon as we can bear it,” she says, and clutches the letter from Jon in a tight fist, “I will not have my home be beholden to flayed men any longer.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” Lady Zahara says. There is violence in her eyes, violence that Sansa recognizes.

_ ‘The old sea-hawk has sharpened her claws for this, it seems.’ _

She looks to the rider from the Watch and the man her aunt Lysa has left behind, and straightens.

“We will not ask House Baratheon, House Targaryen, or House Tyrell for aid they do not feel they need to give,” she says, voice tight, “We will liberate the North ourselves, with the aid of who is willing. Ramsay Snow cannot be left to stay.”

“Your grace’s words ring true,” Lady Zahara says, eyes glittering with promised vengeance. Sansa’s hands tighten on Retribution.

“Lady Brienne,” Sansa asks, turning towards the swordswoman, “I was wondering if you would be willing to teach me how to wield a sword- at least well enough for an execution.”

It is performative. Brienne has been teaching her for moons, already. The only real new update is Retribution in her hands.

“Our way is the old way, Your Grace,” the Mormont woman hums.

“Aye, it is. Once Bolton is done with, we should be able to send a small force down South to liberate your family members from the Freys, and burn that gods-forsaken bridge to the ground,” Sansa growls.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lady Zahara replies, “Though we’ve brought someone else who’d like to speak with you.”

“Sansa?” a familiar voice calls. Sansa’s head whips up, and towards the door.

He’s older now, with a short beard and longer hair, but-

“JON!” she cries, no care for propriety, and leaps from her high seat to her brother.

-

Tormund watches, slightly uncomfortable, as a massive wolf and an even bigger bear-dog come forward to sniff him. The bear-dog is equipped with a saddle, one that may be large enough for several men someday.

“Denna, Nymeria, he is a friend,” Sansa barks. The white beast looks up immediately, and bounds over to Sansa, exuding friendliness. Tormund can see why- he knows bear-dogs. Those who keep them swear that there is no wild beast more friendly, more curious, and most vitally- more loyal.

The direwolf is slower to heel. She raises her head, sniffs, and whines, as if she’s looking for something, but treads over to Sansa without much complaint after that.

Jon grins even brighter at his sister.

“So, where’s this Sam of yours?” she asks, watching idly as Val begins to chatter with a warm-looking young man off at one of the tables.

“Down at the Citadel. Maester Aemon’s passed. Gilly’s gone with him. Did you know he taught her her letters before they left?”

“No, I did not, you never told me,” Sansa says, sinking her hands into Denna’s white fur. They discuss things long into the night. Sansa’s hair glimmers in the firelight, and Tormund is reminded dearly of his own daughters, back home.

“You alright?” the warm-looking man from before asks. He looks like one of the  _ very _ southern crows, with features that look as if they’re carved from a less red cherry wood, and bright golden eyes. Fire springs from his palm, and Tormund gladly warms his hands with it. Another person, with similar features save for her eyes, a crystalline blue similar to the crow’s sister, lights a blue fire in her palms.

“Hello, Aunt Zara,” the young man offers, and ‘Aunt Zara’ laughs.

“Hello to you too, Kieran.”

-

Sansa sees an odd look in the corner of Zahara Moran’s eyes, when she lays her own on Jon, and she wonders.

She remembers, in the back of her head, that Lady Zahara had joined her father and Howland Reed when they’d defeated three Kingsguard knights, remembers her father admiring her bravery in joining them, so recently after giving birth.

_ ‘Did you know Jon’s mother?’ _ she thinks, watching. Blue eyes, near the same shade, match with one another, and Lady Zahara inclines her head, as if she knows exactly what Sansa is thinking.

“The other families are coming,” she says, voice soft, “I’ve seen more banners on the horizon this morning. They’ve come to swear to you, your grace, to crown you officially, as the rest of us have. And don’t you think it’s funny that the three families that got here first all have the same sound to start with? Manderly, Moran, Mormont. I think it’s funny.”

Sansa gets a glimpse of the nervous woman under the professional demeanor that Lady Zahara puts out. She offers a reassuring smile, and turns towards the entrance of the hall, which opens smoothly, without a single creak.

There is no banner, here- just a leather flag in an approximation of one, with nothing on it. Below, there is a sight that makes her breath hitch.

A woman whose face she’d know no matter where she was, even pale and deathly and scarred as it is.

There is a rattling sound, combined with an identical shout.

“Sansa!” her little brother yells, before he seems to realize himself, what he needs to say, “I- what’s the word- I abdicate.”

_ “Sssanssa,”  _ her mother hiss-rasps, stretching thin arms outwards. In them, is a crown of bronze and iron.

-

Jon realizes with a start that there are more Starks and Tullys in one room now than there ever were in his memory. Brynden, Catelyn, and Lysa all look at each other with wide eyes (or is Catelyn Lady Stoneheart now? She certainly is no force of goodness- that much is certain- but is she still his sister’s mother?

There’s a dour look in her eyes, when she stares at Jon, and he’s certain that this is Lady Catelyn.

“You know,” he offers offhandedly, “You’re not the only one in this room that’s come back from the dead. That’s the only reason I’m this far south, actually. Wouldn’t have let me off the Wall if I’d stayed alive. I was Lord Commander, I got murdered, a Red Witch declared for King Stannis brought me back.”

That brings an odd expression to Lady Catelyn’s face (and he’s going to keep calling her Lady Catelyn- despite the grief in her eyes and the clear pain it brings her to rasp out words, there’s still light behind her eyes and recognition and emotions other than rage. She is not just a shell), something that looks almost like kindness.

Sansa’s face holds pity, and Rickon’s only worry, but for now, they bask in the presence of family (even if one of them is very, very creepy, if Jon is to be consulted). There’s a low light from the fires Kieran and Jon both cast, and a faint glow from the water that Sansa, Rickon, and Brynden pass around like a little game. Nymeria, Ghost, and Denna make faint snoring sounds from where they’re piled in the corner, along with a few of Nymeria’s Riverlander wolf pack.

Just like that, Nymeria’s golden eyes slide open, but they’re not gold. They’re grey. She narrows her eyes, then widens them, at the assembled group of humans and animals, smiles a wolfy smile, and howls, long and low, into the night.

-

“We have to assume he has Arya,” Sansa says, “but clearly he doesn’t have Rickon, and even if he does have Stannis’s head, the Baratheon forces will still follow Shireen.”

Rickon swivels his head towards the girl, who smiles and dips her head. He doesn’t buy the faint, elegant veneer.

“Shireen and her father have committed forces to the Northern cause, but it may be in our best interests to reserve Baratheon forces as we are reserving Tyrell and Targaryen forces, and thank you, King Aegon, Lady Olenna, for offering. More lords trickle in every day to offer fealty to the North. Thank you for agreeing to discuss all of this after we win the fight.”

“Sansa,” Jon says to Rickon’s left, “The Boltons aren’t our only concern. The dead rise- and not the way I and your mother have- to the North, beyond the Wall. The Free Folk have crossed, already, with your permission, but we  _ need _ to be prepared for the war to come, against the dead and the Night King himself.”

“I am well aware of that, brother dear. Please tell me, how can we kill the monsters you’ve mentioned?”

“Dragonglass and Valyrian Steel for White Walkers, both of the above and fire for wights.”

“Dragonstone is filled with dragonglass, even if we argue over the true ownership, either I or King Aegon can supply such. Earthbenders armed and trained in dragonglass and firebenders to cover them in dealing with the wights should be invaluable.”

That’s Shireen again. She’s frightfully smart, and Rickon knows that well, now- knows better than to needle her.

“Alright then, we have a base plan for that, if not one that is completely fleshed out. Now, as Ramsay Snow is a mad dog, and he is not worth negotiating with, we need to clear the North of him and his ilk-”

“And burn the bodies.”

“Yes, Jon, I was  _ getting to that. _ Now, I know you’re my older brother and believe me, I care about you deeply and frankly I think you don’t realize that you’re undermining me by interjecting all the time, but I do need to remind you about it.”

Jon looks properly chastized.

“As I was saying, we need to put Ramsay Snow down, first, but before we even think about doing that, we need to secure whatever highborn hostages that he has down in my dungeons. Does  _ anyone _ have  _ any _ idea how to do that?”

“The Blue Spirit,” Rickon says, half on instinct. Sansa softens.

“Rickon, that’s just a story Father told us when we were little.”

“It isn’t,” Jon replies, “Rickon is right. Father told me when he thought I was old enough to understand it. The Blue Spirit is a very real position, and it is very much occupied, at least at the time of Father’s death.”

“Who occupies the Blue Spirit position currently? What is his name? What is the Blue Spirit?”

That’s Aegon.

“The Blue Spirit is a she. She’s  _ always _ been a she, sworn to House Stark above all else and trained exclusively with the purpose of saving hostages with as little noise made as possible. The current one might be dead, for all I know, but-”

“She’s not,” his sister’s sworn sword says. A few other guards look at him strangely- the tall, blonde woman by the name of Brienne of Tarth and a man called the Hound, to state a few- but Kieran Snow stands tall, something alight in his golden gaze.

“The current Blue Spirit is very much alive. You’ve met her, spoken with her, she knows you,” he says to Sansa, “I will not state her name to anyone but to House Stark, for it does not matter how well she guards the secret if it is known to everyone.”

The rest take the hint, and file out, all save for Jon, Rickon, and Sansa.

“She is in this very castle,” he says, “And do not fault her for coming to you sooner- she trusted me to do the duty well, and she could not leave without compromising leadership in the Northern forces. The current Blue Spirit is my aunt, Lady Zahara Moran. She will carry out your orders, Your Grace, all you must do is speak them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So. I wasn't originally going to add this version of the Blue Spirit in 'cause it's a bit weird. But basically, she's what it says on the tin: a hostage rescue expert in service to House Stark, and exclusively House Stark. ANY northern noblewoman can become the Blue Spirit, but it's usually just within families that would already know the drill, and the nice swords that the current Blue Spirit has are exclusive to the family that gets the job the most: house Moran.
> 
> Fun fact: the PREVIOUS Blue Spirit was Lyarra Stark! Stark women are the second most common group, since they also tend to know about it, even if only in stories. And Zahara was considering Arya for the position prior to her, y'know, going missing. I also have a very specific reason that Zahara didn't go get Sansa immediately (that being: she was required to fight the Ironborn).
> 
> Also: minor spoiler! Next chapter is called "the flayed man burns". I'm sure y'all can make the connections.


	15. the flayed man burns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title says it all folks (except, not literal burning)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmm!

It is Sansa’s opinion that Lady Zahara has not had a mission like the one that Sansa gives her now in years.. She is past forty, with kind eyes and a kinder smile, but when Sansa gives her the order, she straps on her swords, with their oh-so-familiar ripples, and her mask, and nods, back straight and eyes forwards.

She slinks out of New Castle at dawn, and returns less than a fortnight later, slipping off her mask and staring at Sansa.

“It’s not the Princess, as we already knew, since Jeyne Poole has told us,” she says, voice soft, “But it is Alys Karstark, that he held. She’s a sweet little thing, I’ve brought her back to you, along with any other particularly valuable hostages I could find.”

Sansa’s reminded that, by right, Alys Karstark is her daughter’s goodsister, and the way she tightens her hand around the girl’s arm protectively shows that Lady Zahara knows that too.

Lady Zahara has a few new scars.

“An arrow wound,” she says, “Fortunately, I’m wearing silk under this- silk is remarkably good against puncture wounds like those from an arrow, I was able to pull it right back out.”

Sansa remembers to make a note for putting linings of silk on the inside of her summer wear for such purposes. If Lady Zahara speaks truth, which Sansa only barely doubts she does, it could be incredibly useful.

“Lady Alys was not the only person of vital interest I found,” Lady Zahara says, and in comes King Stannis, wearing no crown.

Sansa calls the others in. King Stannis’s eyes go from Shireen, who gives a faint cry of joy to see her father, alive at that (Jon has told Sansa, quietly, that her mother had perished on the Wall, in the fires of the Lady Melisandre). King Aegon stiffens quietly, but goes calm after a short while- this is Stannis, not Robert. Lady Margaery takes a single wary step backwards.

“I see you’ve collected quite the council, Queen Sansa,” King Stannis says. There’s strangely no bitterness to it. Sansa looks into his eyes, and sees the faint softness for her that there is for Princess Shireen, and she understands.

King Stannis respected her father, respects her, but she is of an age with his daughter and he is a father, deep down under his layers of duty like her own father had been under his layers of honor (although, King Stannis has far more layers to pass through).

Sansa gives him a respectful nod.

“We should hit hard and fast,” he begins, and Sansa steps back. King Stannis is the most seasoned battle commander among them, save perhaps Jon Connington, and even Connington clearly admits that in this scenario, Stannis should take the lead.

Lady Margaery wraps a hand carefully around Sansa’s, and Sansa squeezes it reassuringly. She knows all to well the uncertainty of one’s place in these scenarios.

-

They do not, in the end, hit hard and fast. The banners stream to their cause, and Sansa holds firm that she or Rickon will not be crowned until they can be crowned in Winterfell, as a King or Queen of Winter. She moves quickly, out of White Harbor within a night and going from keep to keep, castle to castle, raising the banners and baying for blood. She sits astride Denna, and lets her hair hang long, a living testament to who she is, that her claim is true.

Robb’s crown is altered, mended, cleaned. It is no longer rusted, but gleams in the sunlight. The off-gold of the bronze and the near black of the shining iron glisten against her deep red hair. It fits, now- it is not oversized like it once was, and it sits high and heavy on her head, as it always should. In the corner of her eye, before she leaves, Sansa sees what’s left of her mother, a tearful smile upon her face. Denna howls, as they bound their way out of New Castle, and Nymeria joins in.

First, it is the Flints. Then what’s left of the Hornwoods, what’s left of the Umbers. Sansa, every inch a Queen, holds her head high. Her aunt’s men hold back, a surprise in the war to come.

They arrive at Winterfell with half of Ramsay’s men swung to her own side, and a regal presence about her.

Ramsay Snow stands on one end of a field, eyes wicked and grey. Mya makes an aborted growl next to her, and Kieran snorts quietly.

_ ‘These two bastards are better than you will ever be, legitimised or not,’ _ she thinks, and looks to Gendry, and Sandor, and Brienne, and she smiles.

Ramsay grins, and swaggers up to their meeting point. Sansa steps away from Denna, who whines but seems to understand, and comes to meet him, knowing that he has almost nothing to bring to bear against her. Most of the might of the Boltons is gone, supported by neither the Ryswells nor the Dustins after she’s sent ravens to them of Ramsay’s betrayal towards their favorite son, the only trueborn Bolton, Domeric.

“I have your brother,” he says. Sansa shakes her head.

“My brother is with my mother, and we know you don’t have Arya. Seems your father was as bad at killing or keeping Starks as you were.”

“I still have Alys Karstark,” and at that, Sansa laughs.

“No, you don’t. If that is all, you will die tomorrow, Lord Bolton.”

“You’re much prettier than she was,” he says, “Shame you’re such a frozen-”

“I’d suggest you don’t finish that sentence. You’ll get a cleaner death, that way,” she says, voice quiet.

“No truce, I take it, my lady?”

Sansa walks away, head held high, for that will be this wicked man’s answer. Tomorrow, there will be a slaughter. She knows that much. When she gets back to camp, she will remove her crown, will make sure she’s close enough to the river or the moat that she will be able to truly make a difference. Mya nods, when she catches her eye, and follows Sansa closely, blue eyes matching blue. Kieran matches their pace at Sansa’s other side.

“The river,” she says quietly, “Or the moat. Or snow. Anything- as long as we have water.”

They nod in unison.

-

It is deep in the night, when “The Rains of Castamere” begins to play from the other camp. Sansa instructs her own men to begin singing a different song, of dead Old Lions killed by their own cubs. “The Rains of Castamere” stops, and instead, her own singers pick up “Wolf in the Night”. It seems fitting.

And then, there is one last kick.

She instructs her own men to play “The Rains of Castamere”. It may be Lord Tywin’s song, more than anything, but she’d ‘spoken’ with the shade her mother had become about her plans. The Starks are the Kings in the North, the Queens in the North, the Lord Paramounts and Lady Paramounts and Wardens and Wardenesses. The Boltons, while they may have been kings themselves once upon a time, have not been the Red Kings in quite some time. They are the Reynes, the Tarbecks, in this little story, and she will have them know it.

They might have tried to scare her, with warnings of their Lannister friends, and what they can do, but Sansa will scare them in turn with a reminder of Stark might, of what it is to challenge her, to challenge her family, in a fight for the North.

The Wulls seem to understand what she is doing, and rush into their own rendition of “Wolves in the Hills”. Bannerman after bannerman sings their own song of the Starks, of the length they’ve held the land and the loyalty they’ve claimed. There’s a high, sweet voice that sings of the first Avatar, of Brandon the Builder, and weaves together the story of the Last Hero, and Sansa’s breath catches in her throat.

“Fire, water, air, and earth,” she mutters under her breath. Podrick, Mya, and Kieran turn to her.

Sansa stands, and sings the opening notes to the Rat Cook in front of the camp of soldiers. Heartened by their Queen’s presence (and the quiet assurance that her in armor and battle-leathers suggests that she, like her brother before her, will join them in war), the men sing the song loud enough that it’s clearly heard all the way in the Bolton camp.

Before light even dawns, the deserters begin to trickle in. The men of the North keep on singing, louder and higher than before now that they have knowledge that it’s not just raising their own spirits- it’s their best form of intimidation. The Rat Cook is sung three more times before the dawn, Wolf in the Night is sung five more times, Iron Lances is sung thrice, and a long, deep song that Jon and Tormund sing together spreads around camp like the touch of wildfire.

At dawn, there is a quiet song, spreading through camp with stilting legs, like it’s only just been composed. It grows louder and louder and louder, and sings of wildfire and escape and the bright lights of a maiden’s eyes, like sapphire, and the deep copper of her hair, and the wildness in her bones. It is a song of endurance, a song of warning, and it brings tears to Sansa’s eyes when she realizes that the maid in the song is her.

-

They attack at first light. The voices of the men and women that have answered her call are hoarse. There are Free Folk and lords and knights and mountain clans among them, and Sansa saddles Denna, a fire in her eyes. She sucks in a breath, and speaks to her men.

“For Robb Stark, King in the North,” she manages, without a single sobb, and charges.

She makes her way to the river, first, and hears the cracking of the ice answer her call. Men in flayed attire fall every which way around her. Denna rips apart anyone who would even try to land a hit in her. She has no saddle or reins, not today, not when Sansa needs every inch of her ferocity, needs her to be wild.

Brienne is beside her, Oathkeeper in hand. Sansa sticks to what she knows best, her ice and her water, spinning with her hits and turning even the snow that falls heavy beneath her feet into long spires of ice. No man even tries to make it to her, too terrified of the spinning of the blades of steel and ice. Well, no man save Kieran, who is right beside her with his fire. Sansa is grateful that they’d accumulated such a force beforehand- this battle will be bloody, and hard-won, but it will be theirs. She sees Jon, in the corner of her eye, and her breath catches.

With a feral scream, she bursts from the river with a massive wave of ice behind her, flattening anything in her path. He’s one of her two only surviving brothers, she needs him, needs her only older sibling, and beyond that-

Blood crusts her tied-up hair and her hands and her clothing by the time she carves a swathe through her side of the Bolton forces. It’s not enough- the Bolton men begin to crush their way in, begin to pin up her men, and suddenly, Sansa is grateful that she’d thought with enough sensibility to ask her allies to wait nearby, to rise up for Rickon if she falls- all except her aunt. Family comes first, and she hopes, with desperation, that Lysa Tully Arryn, formerly Baelish as well, will remember this, as she finds herself fighting as best she can.

_ ‘I am a healer,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘I am not made for this. I cannot stand this. _ ’

She takes another deep breath, sending spires of ice in every direction, giving her and hers some space to do what they need to do. All the while, Sansa waits desperately for the sight of white falcons on blue on the horizon, waits for the sight of Aunt Lysa or Uncle Brynden or even her Royce men on the hill with the sound of a trumpet, as she gets closer and closer to Jon and feels more and more of herself slipping away.

Finally, there is the sound of a horn, high and clear. Tears of relief come to Sansa’s eyes, and she fights harder and harder and harder. She wears no crown, not while she needs to move like she does now, but- whether it is blood or water, the wetness in her hair weighs it down, feeling almost like a circlet.

The white falcons race across the field, from their position high upon the hill. Sansa watches, exhausted, as Jon follows Ramsay into the gates.

It is not near as destroyed as she’d heard it was. Winterfell still stands tall and proud, and as she walks to it, she can feel the heat of the hot springs sing to her in its watery voice.

She is home, she knows it. Denna lopes beside her. Blood cakes her snout, but she’s otherwise unharmed, her thick fur a better armor than battle-leathers.

Sansa walks forwards, her head held high. There’s a sound of cheers. Her men are bloodied, but, with the arrival of the Arryn cavalry, the casualties are less than expected, and she owes far fewer debts than she would have if she’d relied on Stannis or Aegon.

Denna and Nymeria and Ghost all howl together, their song mixing in the autumnal chill. Sansa wants to throw back her head and howl with them, but settles for a wide, feral smile. Retribution hangs light on her waist, unused. The wounded catch the corner of her eye, and Sansa remembers her duties. She crouches in the blood-stained snow, mending cuts and bruises and giving relief to deeper wounds. Brienne follows beside her, and Wynafryd and Wylla and Uncle Brynden join them.

Sansa is reminded of another Queen in the North, another healer, her brother’s wife, and holds back her tears.

Even with the pain she’s wrought today, when she heals the broken bones of soldiers and sees the relief in their faces, she hopes Queen Talisa looks upon her and feels something close to pride.

-

The Great Hall is filled with lords, and it is only the reminder that winter is here that keeps them from requesting a feast, she thinks. Some of them fought for her in the battle- loyal men, caring men. House Ryswell was among them, she remembers. With the knowledge that Ramsay Snow was a kinslayer thrice over- his mother, then his brother, then his father- and the middle being half-such, House Ryswell had flocked to her cause in anger. House Dustin followed them more hesitantly, with Barbrey Dustin still hating her father oh-so-much, and her mother even more- but kinslaying is a crime without forgiveness, and as the lords before her get deeper and deeper into their cups, they decry the Bastard of the Dreadfort with everything they have.

“I hear your younger brother has been found alive, Your Grace,” a lord says, and the hall goes quiet.

“Yes, Prince Rickon is safe and alive, Lord Glover,” she says, “I was willing to step aside, but he has re-ordered the succession in favor of eldest to youngest.”

There’s a quiet questioning glance amongst the lords, but it’s accepted with a shrug.

“I do believe we are in need of a crowning,” Lord Glover says again, “For there stands her brother’s heir, a woman grown, who fought her way through this sludge same as the rest of us and stayed to heal her men. That lion bitch calls herself a queen, calls on us to remove a Stark from Winterfell? House Glover stands with Winterfell. House Glover knows no Queen but the Queen in the North, whose name is  _ Stark! _ ”

It’s a remarkable save, and it starts a chant. He removes his sword, and holds it high, same as all of the other lords and ladies, who quickly follow him. Little Lady Lyanna Mormont looks put out at not being able to say the words she’d so bravely sent to the Boltons, but she holds her little knife up to the sky all the same.

“Fortunately, my lords,” she says, “My brother’s crown has been recovered.”

Her brother brings it forth, on nothing but his hands.

“No gold or jewels shall crown thee, for when winter comes and cold winds blow, bronze and iron shall defend thine kingdom,” he says, a faint smile upon his face, “We, the lords of the North, do proclaim thee, Sansa of House Stark, Queen of the North. A Queen of Winter we do proclaim thee, and a Queen thou shall be until the world stops turning and the stars stop shining.”

Sansa bends her head, and accepts her crown, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She stands. There is fire behind her eyes, she knows, for the lords and ladies of the North stare at her with wide eyes of their own, and whisper among themselves. Those with swords raise them, and begin to chant her name, and Sansa resists the urge to cry tears of sheer relief. She knows Little Rickon will be here soon enough, knows that the shade that is somehow still her mother will come along with them, and that their broken, half-dead family will come back to life just a little bit more.

It’s Denna that begins the howl, stirring to life behind Sansa and raising her massive, white head, cleaned of the bloodstains it had held just a week prior. Sansa holds back a laugh, but she cannot help but smile when Ghost and Nymeria join in. The song is not sad. It is long, but it is joyful and speaks of revenge and understanding and home.

There’s a lower chant, that starts from the Mormonts, but spills out to the rest.

“The Red Wolf!” a woman shouts.

“THE RED WOLF!” they shout in unison.

The Queen of Winter stands tall. Denna’s howl shakes the rafters this time. The doors open cautiously.

Sansa sits, and the room sits with her.

“Maester Medrick, you have news?” she asks the man in grey. He nods gravely, though there is a spark of something behind his warm brown eyes.

“It is a single letter, from the Twins,” he says, “and it only says one thing- well, three things of note. The Red Wedding has been avenged. The North Remembers. It is signed by Princess Arya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coronation speech taken from A Crown Of Iron, because I couldn't find the official one and I love that fic.  
Next is a bit of a slower chapter before we REALLY start talking White Walkers.


	16. the north remembers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I dump significant amounts of exposition on a character none of y'all probably care about bc I crush on her muscles and her inability to keep a secret well, and also Arya POV! + hints at my Final Plan  
also!!! margaery is v gay for Sansa with her crown on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

Alexandria and Avir Moran are rather insufferable people, Arya thinks. She just wants to go home, but her honor commands her to go save her uncle, and go save her uncle she absolutely will. Lady Roslin chirps alongside them, her son bundled up in her arms. Arya clearly unsettles her, but Roslin clucks over her and braids her hair and smiles and kisses her cheeks like any aunt should.

Wylis Manderly and the Greatjon ride beside them, the Smalljon not far behind. They are a sort of honor guard around Arya, and they refuse to call her anything but Princess on their way to Riverrun.

Freeing Riverrun goes easier than she thinks it will. Ser Jaime Lannister is there, unfortunately, so Arya makes the executive decision to kidnap the man and take him North with them.

There is a massive pack of wolves, around Riverrun, and they look to her as if awaiting orders.

“Protect my uncle,” she tells them, “Keep him safe. And when your work is done, come North, come to Winterfell when Winter is done, and we will give you warm bellies and gentle hands to raise your pups, should you keep our people safe.”

It is the same promise once, long ago, made by another Stark to wolves already several thousand years on their way to becoming dogs. It was how they were tamed, she knows, and these wolves know it too. They howl, voices bright, into the night, a promise to her.

_ ‘We will guard Your children and Your people,’ _ they say,  _ ‘In return, we ask for four things: Your warm hands, to care for our pups, Your warm food, to fill our bellies, Your warm hearths, to warm ourselves by, and Your warm hearts, to love us as deeply as You love one another.’ _

Arya does not know how she knows, but she does, and the song of winter, of warm hearths and the howling of wolves that are friends, not foe, fills every bone in her body. Edmure, Roslin, and baby Robb Tully look at her strangely, but Arya howls with her wolves, and hears them singing.

Ten members of the pack several hundred strong break off to join her honor guard, and they continue North without a care.

Ser Jaime grumbles and gripes, but he listens when Arya tells him of Lady Brienne, of how she’d spun shields of ice from the water around her and the determination in her eyes. He is softer, then.

The Northmen and Northwomen stay with her. Lady Alexandria slams her horse into the Kingslayer’s body more than once, and he shouts at her plenty of times, until Arya’s voice breaks the silence.

“You killed her husband, her good-brother, and one of her closest friends, all in quick succession,” she says, “How do you expect her to react? Do you expect her to be kind? She has not seen her children in years because of your father- they may be dead because of him. She could rip you apart with her bare hands if she had less self-control. Harassing you is not something I will reprimand her for, not until she has the rest of her family safe in her arms.”

Ser Jaime looks properly chastised, but he looks curiously at Alexandria after that, then jolts.

“You’re the King’s Beast.”

Alexandria’s head snaps up, and she growls out a warning. It sounds almost inhuman, and the feathered cloak around her shoulders that Arya distinctly remembers not being there before rattles in threat.

“So what of it,” she snarls, “So what if I can rip a man’s head from his shoulders, so what if I have, many times over? It will not bring them back.”

“My apologies, my lady-”

“I do not want your apologies,” Lady Alexandria says, “I want your head on a spike, as my goodfather did. But I will not kill  _ boys _ to get it, and I will not name it justice, and most importantly, I will not betray House Stark, no matter how much stolen gold your whore of a sister offers me.”

Ser Jaime lunges at her, and one of the wolves knocks him to the dirt.

“She is one, Ser Jaime. You think you were the only man she brought into her bed?” Alexandria taunts, but it is the last taunt she spits. She does not bother Ser Jaime again. Instead, she rides with the Jon Umbers, both of them, and her own uncle.

“You would not understand the way Cersei and I love each other,” Ser Jaime says, “We are twins, two halves of a whole-”

“Oh, don't give me that shit!” Avir Moran yells, “I and my lady sister are twins. I trust her with my life, and I care for her deeply, and that is exactly why I would  _ never _ share her bed. My niece is also a twin. None of us look to our siblings with lust in our eyes.”

It silences Ser Jaime, at least for a little while. They reach the Neck with little fuss, and Moat Cailin’s wolf and lizard-lion banners are a refreshing sight.

Lord Howland greets them warmly, Arya most of all. He kneels, eyes wide.

“Princess,” he says, “I apologize for not being able to attend your sister’s coronation, but I am sure news of your safety will more than make up for it. I have much to tell you, Princess Arya. Information I would not trust in the hands of anyone but a Stark.”

“What, my lord?”

“The identity of Jon Snow’s mother,” he says softly, voice barely above a whisper. Ser Jaime catches it, though, and that is a rather impressive face journey.

-

At dawn, Sansa stares at the half-dead body of Ramsay Snow. Jeyne Poole stands beside her, not shaking even a little bit.

There is a growl, behind them.

“I asked Jeyne what she thought your punishment should be,” she says, “We’ve killed most of your dogs, the ones you used to hunt, but we’ve kept the younger females. You’ve not fed them, but we have. We’ve fed them from our own table, we’ve been kind to them, and, one more thing, Ramsay.”

“What?”

“Never pit a dog against a warg,” she says, voice as soft as starsilk, “Denna spoke with them. They hate you, like the people hate you. They hated what you did to Jeyne and the other women. Dogs are smarter than you think. We will let them kill you.”

“My hounds are loyal beasts,” he says with gritted teeth.

“You had not fed them in seven days,” she says, “And then we gave them good food freely. They owed no loyalty to you. A deal goes both ways, after all.”

The first of the hounds rushes forwards. Jeyne’s eyes glisten with something terrible and powerful. Sansa understands it, and links her hand with Jeyne’s.

It feels different, from linking her hand with Margaery’s, but she will not say it.

The hounds finish with Ramsay soon enough. They whine and look to Jeyne as if apologising, even though these dogs never chased any women through the woods, were never used to threaten her. Jeyne scratches one under the chin hesitantly.

Denna’s massive white shape treads cautiously through Winterfell. She is truly gigantic, in a way none here are used to. She’s friendly enough, though, despite all she eats, and the children that have quickly begun to trickle in nearby adore her, adore her dark eyes and her fluffy tail and her soft fur.

Rickon launches himself into Sansa’s arms, when he arrives, all smiles at Winterfell’s still-intact self. Sansa feels the water within the walls of Riverrun. The earthbenders have already begun rebuilding the few things that have been knocked down, and, miraculously, the glass gardens are untouched.

She sees the shade of her mother, in the corner of her eye. Lady Stoneheart stares, a wistful look upon her face instead of rage, and Sansa wonders if there’s hope for her, after she’s seen Jon, if something could anchor her back down to her body or release her spirit from it without violence.

It feels strange, not to have used Retribution, not to have felt the wolf pommel in her hands and brought the rippling steel down on Snow’s head.

“My lady,” Brienne says as she leaves, worry in her eyes. Sansa’s eyes flicker down to Oathkeeper’s lion-head pommel.

“We need to get you a new pommel, Lady Brienne,” she says, “The lion will do you no favours, here. A sun, perhaps? For Tarth?”

“A moon, for both Tarth and House Arryn. Closer to your own blood, and less likely to be squabbled over by House Karstark.”

Sansa smiles.

“I will give it back to you, for your own House, when you ask for it,” Brienne says.

“I know you will,” she says, and offers a smile to Lady Brienne.

There’s a horn the next morning, a sound of arrival. Sansa’s head jerks up at the noise. Sansa is glad that with all of the earthbenders here, the keep is already mostly repaired (and, from what Gendry and Mya have said, it is remarkably workable, like it had been raised with earthbending before).

Sansa rushes into the courtyard, grabbing a fistful of Denna’s white fur and leaping onto her back in a graceful movement. Her crown is upon her brow- Robb’s crown, though it has been reshaped just slightly and made far, far lighter- still heavy, but it does not threaten her as much as it used to. Lady Lysa rushes in first, a smile upon her frail face, and Sansa and Brynden greet her gladly.

The banners change, and the squabbling begins.

-

“You look radiant, Your Grace,” Margaery tells Queen Sansa. It is not a lie. She looks like some type of story, a fairytale Margaery cannot place the name of. The sun is at her back and it filters through her red hair and her crown of iron and bronze, casting a wide shadow with a reddish halo around her head where her silken hair catches the light.

“You do as well, Lady Margaery,” Queen Sansa offers. Her smile is not as wide as it could be, not carefree, but there is warmth there. It is a true smile.

Loras shifts beside her, watching uncomfortably as Princess Shireen is greeted with just as much warmth. Her blue eyes shine with caring, her greyscale scars catch not near as much attention as the hair as black as pitch that has been brushed until it gleams. She stands straight and tall, in a gown of black and gold, but there is so much black that it looks almost like a mourner’s gown.

She’s concerned- Stannis is not here. Margaery looks every which way for him, or for Shireen’s mother, or for everyone but the man with the ship and onion sigil that stands beside the Princess, a strained but otherwise rather warm smile upon his face. Ser Davos, she remembers, Stannis’s hand, and that does make some sense- she would understand trusting a Hand with one’s own children- but Stannis is still absent. Something in Shireen’s eyes tells Margaery that she would rather avoid explaining why if possible.

The inevitable explanation, once they are within the Great Hall, draws shock and shouts.

Shireen holds her head high, and speaks to Loras in a quiet voice.

“Her father died with dignity,” he says, “He joined the force routing the Karstark men before they could join with the Boltons. He admitted what he’d done, when he laid dying. I- I want to be angry with him, but-”

“You don’t have the energy to hate right now, do you Loras?” she whispers. He chokes back a sob and shakes his head.

“Queen Shireen Baratheon.  _ What _ a day,” she says.

“With so many Queens and Kings, we might as well split this Seven Kingdoms up again,” he mutters. Margaery freezes, and turns to Shireen with a light in her eye.

“Loras, you may be an idiot sometimes, but I do believe you have your moments of brilliance. Excuse me a moment, I need to speak with the Queens.”

-

Five women sit in the lord’s solar of Winterfell. Three of them are young- Shireen is not even a woman grown, not really, her sixteenth nameday is still moons away, but Sansa is eighteen and Margaery is still young yet. The two older women, Lady Lysa and Lady Olenna, seem more amused than anything with the proceedings. Like her niece’s, Lady Lysa’s hair seems to shine in the light of the hearth. Margaery’s keen eye notes that this is probably intentional- Lady Lysa’s clothing is styles to mimic Queen Sansa’s, her hair is styled to mimic Queen Sansa’s, she takes her cues from Queen Sansa. Margaery’s grandmother comments on how much they look alike. Sansa smiles warmly, but Lady Lysa  _ beams _ .

“Lord Tarly will be arriving, soon. We sent for him as soon as we learned of the threat beyond the Wall. The Florents have been calling for Shireen Baratheon on the Iron Throne- we have settled them with this  _ idea _ that Loras was somehow lucky enough to stumble into.”

Margaery takes the lead, an expressive smile upon her face.

“There is no reason,” she says, “That we could not, say, split off from each other, once this is all over with, as the North has done. This experiment of Seven Kingdoms beneath the Iron Throne is a failure of the highest order. We are too diverse, too big, too isolated from each other to ever just be one. Maybe in the future, when travel does not take months and we are all together, perhaps we could unite, but it does not make sense to continue pretending.”

“You would suggest that all Kingdoms secede from the Iron Throne,” Sansa says. Margaery nods, fighting the rush of color that comes to her cheeks. She does have a thing for competent women in her age range, it seems.

“I do. King Aegon can keep the Crownlands, the Tullys take the Riverlands, the Greyjoys the Iron Islands, House Tyrell, the Reach. The rest will stay under the same rule they've been under for so long.”

“You forget the Stormlands,” Lady Lysa offers.

“I am as much Durrandon as I am Baratheon, Lady Lysa,” Shireen says, her chin raised defiantly. Something blazes brightly in her eyes, and the ground quakes beneath her.

_ ‘You want it,’ _ Margaery thinks,  _ ‘You want to be the Storm Queen Shireen. _ ’

She thinks her father would appreciate this idea greatly. His daughter a Queen was in all of his dreams, but himself a King? Or Willas, should her father befall an accident because Lord Tarly will not have a fool as a King?

_ ‘I will tolerate wedding whoever he chooses,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘As long as he does not try to wed me to King Aegon. That boy is friendly enough, but he has no interest in women.’ _

-

“You and I both know that you have no beastly capabilities, Lady Alexandria,” Jon Umber the Smaller says. He worries for her, just a little bit.

“Yes, we both know that. But the Lannisters do not know my feathered cloak is only a cloak I can ruffle with skill, the Lannisters do not know that the fire in my palms is not ghost-fire, the Lannisters do not know that it would take me quite the effort to rip a man’s head from his shoulders,” Lady Alexandria replies, sliding a dour expression over to the Kingslayer.

“That was an impressive growl.”

“Thank you, I’ve worked hard on it. It’s a rather good intimidation tool. Gods know I was useful enough to King Robb that he didn’t let me go home and grieve in peace with my children.”

She flexes her shoulder muscles, and the cape rattles like it's affixed to her skin with blood and sinew. She yawns, and her teeth are human.

“I have gotten rather good,” she says, “at casting quite the shadow on the walls, Jon.”

If Jon was on the ground, and she was too, he'd bump her shoulder reassuringly. As they pass the Neck and further North, the sight of what the Ironborn have done to the North makes her hiss with rage, and light a fire in her palm. Jon remembers that Alexandria hates Ironborn like the Umbers hate Wildlings.

“I will not rest until I have my sisters and my children and my good-sister in my arms again. You know this well enough,” she says. Jon offers her a smile, the best he can do in trying times.

Princess Arya cuts between them, on a fine, probably stolen grey palfrey.

“What are you two whispering about?”

“How my reputation is built on the fact that I know shadow puppetry and also how to make animal remains look like human remains,” Alexandria replies, amused.

Jon turns his attention away from his old friend and cellmate to his Princess.

-

Jaime Lannister is miserable.

Absolutely  _ miserable.  _ There is  _ no  _ way around it. Arya Stark seems not to care much for his plight, but the rest of them take joy in making him squirm and suffer. Avir Moran is the least inclined to argue with him, but he’s not friendly with Jaime, either. Jaime remembers that the man’s son squirreled Lady Sansa- now Queen Sansa, if the rumors are to be believed- away from King’s Landing, and is surprised the man does not choose to boast about it. Instead, he seems to be trying to keep the tightest leash possible on his niece, and he watches Arya Stark with care.

The Greatjon ends up being the man to ride next to Jaime, a rope leading from his saddle to Jaime’s own. The Kingslayer sighs at the treatment, throwing his head back to stare at the glittering sky.

“You know, I-”

“Shut up, Kingslayer, none of us want to hear your pompous ass speak.”

It’s the specificity of the insult- pompous- that gives Jaime pause. He supposes he is pompous, but it’s always been with the air of someone who is better than the rest. To these Northmen, it must seem as if he cannot back any of that up.

“Your golden lions are no help to you here,” Wylis Manderly says flatly. He, too, is from a wealthy family- the wealthiest in the North, if is to be believed, though the Manderlys have nothing on the Lannisters. However, there’s something far more… honest, about him, he thinks, then there is in most of his own family. That is an uncomfortable realization, to say the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some VERY exciting news (beyond me finishing my college applications): the girls make out next chapter! nothing particularly explicit since I have no clue how to write ANY of the mechanics and I know better than to trust other fic writers in that, but like... it happens!
> 
> also: alexandria is brienne's height and muscular and let? me? just? say? my exact type. like she could throw a man across a football field. I promise y'all this is the only one that's weirdly alex-centric but like??? i'm v gay and tired. let me have this
> 
> YES we will have BRAIME it is one of the ONLY valid heterosexual ships in GOT, except Jaime is NOT going to do the stupid thing. Kind of vagueing about gendry/arya bc FRANKLy one kernel of main heterosexuality is enough for me. Also, Jon/Sam when Sam gets back from the Citadel bc I am pairing Gilly with a lovely girl.
> 
> Also not in the tags but it's gonna be a thing folks: MISSANDEI/DANY/GREY WORM. Dany is going to get LOVE and our folks are going to be HAPPY.


	17. the real north

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery gets tired of dancing around, and also, the northern lords plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm getting really close to my goal for NaNoWriMo, so I figured it was safe to start working on this again

The lords don’t take well to the news of the impending war to the far North, of the White Walkers rising, of the next fight they will have to slog their way through. Jon tells them of dragonglass, of fire, of Valyrian Steel, and Sansa raises her own sword, promises it to the lord, and has Brienne raise her own.

“Both halves of Ice will defend our kingdom,” she calls, “And Queen Shireen and King Aegon have each promised dragonglass from Dragonstone. They both hold claims to the island, and it is filled with the material. We will train every willing firebender. Our earthbenders will learn how to work with dragonglass, so every arrow or knife tipped in dragonglass needs not be lost. Our waterbenders will learn from Lady Wynafryd Manderly and our other healers how to heal on the largest scale possible. Our goal is to insure that the Wall does not fall, for if it does, my lords, we are lost.”

There is agreement among the men and women below her.

“I would have every able-bodied man and woman, girl and boy, and anyone in-between train with dragonglass or fire. Jon says that when a White Walker is killed, the Wights they raise fall like tipped pins. As dragonglass and Valyrian Steel can kill White Walkers, and while few of us have the steel needed to kill them, we can arm as many as we can with dragonglass. Our only viable strategy is to kill as many White Walkers as we can- if they can raise no dead, command no armies, we are more likely to be able to get to their leader, the Night King, in time.”

“The Night King can raise an army in seconds,” Jon says, “I do not know what can kill him, but dragonglass and Valyrian Steel are worth a shot, at least. I dearly hope he can be killed, but we can make no promises.”

“Every contingent shall be accompanied by at least a single firebender. Children too young to fight should be sent to the nearest harbor, where we will send them across the Narrow Sea. If Westeros is to fall, at least some of our dearest traditions should survive.”

“How do we prove this to the Southern lords?” a lord calls from the back. There’s a smile, from one of Jon’s free folk friends, and a woman comes in, carrying a crate making deep, threatening noises.

“We show them.”

-

Margaery thinks it strange that King Aegon looks nothing like Prince Oberyn once had. Oh, there’s the faintest bit in places, things she thinks must be carry-overs from House Targaryen, so perhaps this boy is who he says he is. But her grandmother says otherwise, a narrowing about her eyes.

“He looks like Aerion,” she says, “Or- well- he looks like Aerion’s son. Maegor. I met the boy once, before he ran off to the Free Cities”

Maegor Targaryen. The little boy who’s name and father had kept him from being a King. Margaery taps her feet and wonders.

Sansa asks her what she’s doing- and it’s Sansa now, not Queen Sansa. Margaery is all the more relieved for it. Margaery answers truthfully, and Sansa purses her lips- something Margaery finds  _ very _ appealing, when the woman with hair like molten metal looks so Queenly- and nods.

“I do not know of this,” she says truthfully in turn, “If he is descended from Maegor, he could easily argue his claim supercedes Queen Daenerys’s when it comes time to get into an argument. I’ve never met the Martells or any other Targaryens, I could not tell you differently.”

“My grandmother has,” Margaery replies, “And your friend Lord Manderly has too, if I remember correctly. Father, I’m sure, would be glad to tell you, and-”

Sansa grabs a hold of her arm. There is laughter in her blue eyes. Margaery resists the urge to let her own flick down towards her soft smile.

“There is no need to get so wrapped up in conspiracy,” Sansa says, “Not having allies when doing such things was my father’s folly. And King Aegon has become a friend of ours, over the last months while he’s been languishing at White Harbor, has he not?”

“He left, actually,” Margaery confesses, “Not long after you did. Connington made him. They went South, to alleviate stress on the Riverlands from the Crownlands forces. It’s why he’s taken so long to get back.”

“I figured as much, he doesn’t seem the type to stay in White Harbor and do nothing.”

“Which does make his case better.”

“Which does make his case better,” Sansa admits, cocking her head slightly.

“You know, if you’d still been in King’s Landing when I arrived, I would have tried to marry you to Willas. I was quite taken with you, with the idea of you being a sister of mine. But I find that the ideal does not appeal to me any longer.”

“Why not?” Sansa says, “Beyond me being a Queen and that meaning your second brother gets Highgarden, of course. I would not leave behind my Stark name, not when there are so few of us left.”

“Not for that reason, Your Grace.”

“You know it’s just Sansa.”

“Well, Sansa,” Margaery says, leaning forwards, deciding to hell with her grandmother’s plans, she wants what she wants, “It’s because I would be terribly sad if one of my brothers was with you, because I would dearly like to have you… all to myself.”

A lesser man or woman would blush and sputter. Sansa pinks, just a little bit, but she does not shrink back from the attention. Instead, she rises to it, bringing her hands around Margaery’s face, and touching their foreheads together.

“I do believe I agree with that sentiment,” Sansa replies, and Margaery kisses her like a woman possessed.

-

Princess Arya Stark could get used to being called Princess. It doesn't feel like some upjunped title here, like some sort of silly fairy-tale that the old Sansa would have enjoyed- and the new Sansa would probably enjoy it too, even if only for the nostalgia.

This is a title earned with blood and gore and hard work- the Frey’s coffers behind her and the Kingslayer in chains by her side says that much. Something tugs her towards Winterfell, something more than just her own desire to go back home, her own need to see her sister alive and well, to see their home safe and unburnt, to see her little brother alive and kicking, to see her eldest brother alongside them.

Arya wishes she had all of them, of course, but four out of eight is better than the one or two of eight that she’d thought it was. She’ll take it gladly, as long as she can cross Cersei’s name off of her list.

They call her sister the Queen in the North, the Queen of Winter, the Red Wolf. They call her brother the Wild Wolf, and they whisper-

The whispering words call her Steel Wolf, Cold Wolf. She thinks it fits.

They call her sister the Singing Wolf, too. There’s a new song, about her- two songs, really. There’s one that has something that almost feels tacked on at the end, like their original ending has been expanded upon, but the one about the Singing Wolf is frightfully interesting.

Arya finds herself slipping into wolf dreams and cat dreams and general animal dreams as she gets closer and closer to Winterfell. She howls herself awake every morning, and her eyes face North, a deep pull ringing in her chest.

-

Sansa holds Margaery’s hand tightly, considering the decree in front of her. Aegon is already here- if she makes such a decree, it will be easier and easier for others to follow.

“That’s mighty brave, but I don’t know if I’d follow through with that promise,” Margaery whispers into her ear.

“It’s not for just you or me,” Sansa replies, “It’s for all of us. I will not have men and women be miserable. I’ve already drafted concessions for the lords, but these two- they’re vital.”

The first is a decree declaring that people can marry who they wish, regardless of gender preference. Her concessions are for childbirth and such things- an order that lords and ladies who enter relationships as such should partner with a similar couple at times so both couples will have children. Despite it, she knows it won’t be a controversial decree- same-sex marriage was legal among smallfolk who did love marriages for millenia under Stark rule, it’s only been three hundred years that it has not been so.

The second is the more controversial decree. It sets the minimum age for the consummation of a marriage at sixteen. Sansa knows well what that means- she may have flowered early, but many girls don’t until they’ve reached that age- in fact, among the smallfolk, most girls don’t flower until they are sixteen or seventeen. But the decree is for all women and men, regardless of development- and, in truth, it applies to relationships outside of marriage in addition to those within marriage.

There’s a third decree, still being drafted, establishing extended protections for whores and all of those that pursue sex work, defending them against violence, ensuring that they are not robbed of their coin by either patrons of their establishments or those who run them.

Another one rumbles in the back of her head, one for widows and orphaned children, extended protections, and yet another whispers of equal primogeniture for all of the years to come.

The most popular one, she knows, will be a stipend for warriors who are well enough to come home but too wounded to work. It is a stipend to have them learn other crafts, too, ones that they will not need use of their legs, or both hands, or both eyes, or all their fingers for. That those with tremors can perform.

A stipend to teach them to read, to let them buy bread, to care for their widows and their children.

She will bring this decree out first. She thinks it will be popular.

-

Sansa calls a council of lords for her new decree. The first she whips out is the one about a stipend for those disabled by war- warriors, specifically.

“These men have served my family ably,” she says, “I will not have them wounded in such service and then have nothing to buy food for their families. I would have them learn skills they could use outside of war, so they can still work, just not in ways they had before.”

This is popular, and receives more than a few claps from the assembled group of lords. Sansa is glad she’s chosen this one first, and must decide her next words carefully, so none grumble.

“I have two decrees dictating marriage laws. The first of them,” and she decides to switch the two, suddenly, because it seems right, “Is that the minimum age for the consummation of a marriage shall be sixteen across the entirety of the North, no younger. It shall be the same for any activity of that kind, though this is to be enforced primarily when only one party is under the age of sixteen. I will not have any Walder Freys under my watch. Besides, most girls don’t flower until they are just about that age in any case- I simply do not want little girls with babes in their bellies because their moon’s blood came earlier than expected of them.”

The comparison to Walder Frey gets more than a few nods. The women in the room yell out their approval, and though some of the men grumble, it is not as unpopular as she’d expected it to be. The last one gets shining eyes, barely unshed tears.

“And how would you determine if this law was being kept?”

“It’s not entirely enforceable,” Sansa agrees, “But it’s a start. And let me be clear, my lords: this is exclusively for the purpose of protecting your sons and daughters, and the young men and women that live upon your lands. If a boy still needs regents, he should not be bedding his wife already. If a girl is still growing, she should not be burdened with a pregnancy that could kill or cripple her when a woman three or four years older could bear it with ease. This decree is made on suggestion of the maesters I have consulted. I figured that sixteen was more agreeable than eighteen. Depending on what environment a violation would occur in, decisions will be made on a case-by-case basis.”

There’s a set of whispers that break out within the lords and ladies, with the latter arguing heavily in favor.

“And what do we say to this decree?”

“Aye, we like it. It’s a little getting used to, Your Grace, but you are right in truth- a girl of three and ten is a girl, not a woman grown,” Lord Glover says, “And a boy who needs regents is not old enough to be a father. I trust there would be exceptions if House succession is in danger?”

“Within reason,” Sansa replies, “Again, I would not have little girls, flowered they may be, struggle with a pregnancy that would be made much easier if they were just a little older.”

“Aye, that sounds good!” a voice shouts. Sounds of assent echo around the hall.

“And there is one more decree, one that reverses an edict forced upon us by the dragons. Of course, it is not near as applicable to arranged weddings, but as the smallfolk tend to have love matches instead, I thought it prudent.”

“OH!” Lord Ryswell says, “You’re talking about marriage of those of the same sex, Your Grace?”

There are louder whispers, a bit of grumbling, and then silence.

“Aye,” Sansa replies, “I am. I see no reason to follow such a Southern rule when so few of us follow the Seven, and the old gods have never frowned upon such unions. I would of course suggest that if such partners are made of lords and lords, ladies and ladies, or the like, that they search for an acceptable surrogate or donor so that children would eventually result, but as long as it’s declared before a court, I see no need to call such children bastards.”

There are more whispers, but more nods, again. It all makes quite a bit of sense, and she’s already buttered them up quite a bit with the other decrees- there is no need for them to get upset.

“Your Grace,” a young man says quietly, after the lords and ladies have filed out of the room, “Has this decree been sent out yet?”

“I was waiting to see the reactions,” she replies evenly, “Do you have a sweetheart you’re asking permission to wed, my lord? Or know a soldier who is in dire need of pension? Or do you know someone in need of the protection of the middle law, instead?”

The young man smiles faintly.

“The first you’ve mentioned now, and the third of the decrees, Your Grace.”

-

The wolf banners raised above Winterfell make her breath catch in her throat. She can see where the reparations have been made, the places where the castle’s old stone mingles with new, stone walls melded together like the whole castle was carved from a great hill and only the keep remains. The godswood is not burning, like she sees it in her nightmares. When she enters the gates, the men wear wolves and mermen and horses with flaming manes and fists and trees and bears.

She stands tall, despite her miniscule height, and stares at them.

“I am Princess Arya Stark, returning with rescued high lords and the Kingslayer as a prisoner,” she says confidently, and watches as their eyes widen.

“My sister or my uncle or Lady Brienne or the Hound could prove it to you!” she says, voice high and loud, “My family is in my home, I would dearly like to join them, and most of my traveling companions would like to pay homage to the Queen.”

They swing open the gates with haste. There’s an aborted howl on the other side, and Arya nearly cries.

“NYMERIA!” she yells, for there is none else this wolf could be, massive and great and deep, deep silver, with yellow eyes the color of summer flowers.

Nymeria bounds towards her in turn, the rocks forgotten. Arya clings tightly to her fur, sobbing in relief she didn’t know she would feel. She should have expected it, really, to feel like her world has snapped back into place, that Nymeria being there would really make is obvious that she was home, but it hasn’t quite settled in, yet. Nymeria licks Arya’s face with her great tongue, and two white, furry beasts nose at Arya curiously. She recognizes one of them by name-

“Hello, Ghost,” she says, and scratches him around the ruff of his neck once, before going back to lavishing attention upon her beloved Nymeria.

The other is bigger, and not a direwolf. Something tells Arya that usually, this one wears a saddle. Kind blue eyes are where dark brown, almost black should be, and then suddenly, the blue is gone, and the grey is gone from Ghost’s eyes, and her siblings are there, clinging tightly to Arya.

Sansa, Jon, Rickon. Arya’s eyes well with tears again, and she’s crying like a child, clinging tightly to her siblings.

A smaller wolf- well, the wolf is big, just not as big as Nymeria, who is near big enough to ride, but is in turn not near as big as Denna, as the big white beast is called- with a coat the color of a raven’s wing threads itself through Rickon’s legs, licking his hands and whining softly. This must be Rickon’s replacement for Shaggy. She thinks, looking into Rickon’s eyes, that part of him died with his wolf.

“This is Shadow,” he says, with all of the confidence of a preteen boy, and Arya holds back a laugh, cradling his face carefully, and smiling, tears welling up in her eyes again.

She feels weak, but that’s alright. She has her Pack to protect her- her human Pack, of Sansa and Jon and little Rickon, and her wolf (well, canid) Pack of Nymeria and Ghost and Denna and Shadow. It’s almost like it should be.

Something’s missing. Arya doesn’t quite know what, but she knows it’s close.

-

Beyond the Wall, an Avatar knows he must go South. There is no Earthbending that will be taught here. When he leaves, Brynden simply  _ fades,  _ his work done. Bran makes promises (so many promises). Hodor and Meera and Jojen and Summer and Bran stare at the Wall before them, and quietly, Bran curses. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, SO:
> 
> The basic plan is thus: HOLD THE WALL UNDER ALL CIRCUMSTANCES. Since they have firebenders, they're less desperate for the dragons and the key thing is dragonglass. And therefore, since they're not all gung-ho about dragons, they'll listen to warnings about the White Walker's ice spears (courtesy of the wargs). Therefore, they'll be under marching orders for No Dragons Under Any Circumstances, bc everyone is Very Sure that a well-thrown ice spear could take them out.
> 
> Also, Summer, Hodor, and Jojen are alive bc I say so.
> 
> And I know the whole switch from talking about Aegon to finally getting together is really not much leeway, but you know what? Margaery likes competent ruling and a pretty face
> 
> \+ yeah, decree #3 was inspired by A Crown of Iron a bit, but it was gonna happen anyways so who cares


	18. south

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lady stoneheart being... a *cool* mom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops! a chapter for this AND for tvok in one day?

“Now that most of us are here,” Jon says, folding the letter from the Watch back up again-  _ Bran, _ it practically whispers- “We really need to corner you and ask,  _ your grace _ , when you're planning on wedding Lady Margaery.”

“You moon over that girl like a lovesick puppy dog,” Arya agrees, “I haven't been home for long, but even I can see it.”

“You moon over her like the Kingslayer and Giantsbane moon over Lady Brienne,” Podrick and Kieran say in unison. They look as if they've practiced it. Mya lets loose a quiet snigger. Lady Stoneheart looks on, confused, in the corner.

_ “Bran?” _ She creaks again. Jon nods reassuringly.

“Yes, my lady, Bran will be here soon. He's abdicated in favor of Sansa too, so we won't have some fuss over what laws are valid. So Sansa can marry her rose.” Lady Stoneheart nods, and pats Jon’s leg reassuringly in turn. She's much kinder with him than he's expected her to be- it's almost as if the shade is guilty.

“I'm not _pining._ _Pining_ would suggest we haven't _done_ anything about it.”

Lady Stoneheart’s scandalized gasp draws a few giggles from the rest of the group. Yes, Lady Stark is still under there. Somewhere.

Rivkah Moran pokes her head into the solar curiously, spots her cousin, and offers him a wide, friendly smile before continuing on. Jon is of the opinion that the hawks must breed like rabbits or they must be impenetrable to weaponry because they've come out of the war with the exact same number of family members that they started with. Truly impressive.

“Speaking of Tormund, though, we should probably find someone else to direct his attention towards before the Lady Ser decapitates him with Oathkeeper.”

That's Podrick, Lady Brienne’s ever-loyal squire. He seems to be here because Sansa and Arya both trust him completely, same as the reason Kieran, his newfound partner in crime, is here.

“Someone needs to knight that woman,” Sansa whispers under her breath. Nods fill the room.

“We are not setting up Giantsbane with the eligible bachelorettes and bachelors of the North. We should suggest him to duel the Kingslayer though, that would be quite funny.”

“Are we just going to forget what Her Grace said earlier? Details, my Queen. Details.”

“We  _ just _ kissed!”

* * *

Varys feels like he’s made a terrible, terrible mistake, which is somehow made not so terrible by the fact that Aegon Blackfyre is, in actuality, quite a kind young man. He’s made nice with Sansa Stark and Shireen Baratheon, which is better than he’d hoped. The ship he’s in creaks when Rhaegal makes a pass overhead. Quentyn flinches at the noise. Half his left leg was burned off by the dragon before he’d made his escape, after all.

“You know, I’ve heard your cousin has made nice with the North and the Stormlands,” Varys offers. Quentyn smiles through a wince.

“Aegon’s a good boy,” he says, “He knows honey traps more flies than vinegar. The Starks are right- Winter  _ is _ coming, and it’s going to be a bad one this time. We can’t afford another war.”

“Queen Daenerys could.”

“Aye,” Quentyn says, “She could. But the realm can’t. And no matter how much you champion each individual king or queen, that’s who you serve in the end, isn’t it?”

“Aerys Targaryen was mad. Robert Baratheon was a drunken fool, cuckholded thrice by a mad wife. His first “son” was less mad than Aerys, but just as violent. His only “daughter” is the only good thing that has ever come from Cersei Lannister, and his second “son” only barely escaped his fall with the use of his arms and is immobile below the waist. Viserys Targaryen, mad. Stannis Baratheon, only barely calmed by the fact that half the competent leaders in the Kingdoms are the same age as his own daughter- thank the gods that man is a father first, and a pyromaniac of a king second. Sansa Stark, no interest in the rest of the realm beyond the North and perhaps the Riverlands and the Vale, though the latter she will never lead, and likely does not wish to. Shireen Baratheon, Queen Daenerys, and Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, are the only hopes we have for a safe,  _ united _ realm.”

Quentyn stares at him, and nods once. Varys cannot tell him, can  _ never _ tell him, that the boy with the shining violet eyes and dark skin and bone-white hair that he’d snuck out of the city is not the same as the man with the blue eyes and the lighter skin (though still dark enough to pass as a little over half-Dornish, and he really should have remembered, beyond coloring, how much the boy had looked like his mother and how he’s not half-Dornish, but  _ mostly _ Dornish, before accepting Illyrio at his word).

There is another, of course, a little girl snuck from the city just as quietly as Prince Aegon had been, but she has been a septa for years, now- there is no Queen to be found in her.

But Aegon Blackfyre is still a King by right, is still Aerion’s descendant. Aegon, son of Saera, daughter of Aemma (wife of Daemon), daughter of Maegor. And yet, a son of a daughter is less than a daughter of a son in the eyes of the dragons, and Shireen is the closer cousin in any case.

It does make sense, of course. Aerion had been as Dornish as his brother was, his wife a little less, but his child was more such than his brother’s children, and the blood had stayed true. Enough of Mariah Martell and Dyanna Dayne had shown through in little Aegon to confuse Varys.

He will take the secret with him to his grave.

* * *

There’s been a number of weddings in Winterfell over the last few weeks. Sansa smiles at each and every one of them. Young men and women cheer her name- young women, especially. The young men grumble about the new rules, until one of the littler lords speaks up about what those with… appetites… already are supposed to do and humorously, Sansa replies that they can do what they’ve been doing… with those their own age. A few blush and sputter at the suggestions, but Lady Margaery Tyrell smiles elegantly and agrees with Sansa, leaning against the taller woman. Denna has taken to sleeping in court, her great white form still visible behind the Queen’s table.

They’ve dispatched men to the castles of the Night’s Watch, dispatched men at the ready to negotiate with the Dragon Queen.

“It is of paramount importance that, when she arrives- and she is likely to choose Dragonstone- she does not impede the mining of dragonglass already taking place, and she does not bring her dragons north of the Wall.”

They all know what will happen then. The Free Folk speak of the Others’ great ice-spears, how they hurl them so far and high and quick that an eagle will turn to naught but a cloud of feathers and a dragon would be felled in near a moment.

No, their best last stand will be at the Wall, manning it with firebenders and dragonglass, and the children will go to the harbors and, if the worst is to happen, they are to be packed with as much as can be spared to support them, and be boarded onto ships and sent across the Narrow Sea.

Queen Shireen and King Aegon steady their shoulders and promise their own skill in addition to their men, and Sansa could almost cry when she sees Shireen with her dragonglass and Aegon with his violet flame. Instead, she hugs them, and thanks them profusely.

“We have no time for pride,” she says, “I welcome anything you are willing to give me.”

Her lords and ladies spend most of the day planning everything down to the last with her. It is one of these planning mornings that Bran arrives, back from Beyond The Wall, and Sansa gets yet another surprise.

* * *

Queen Shireen of the Stormlands might just get to teach the Avatar after all.

He doesn’t know anything about earthbending, despite his being taught by a Past Life and all of that rot. She’d never met this Brynden Rivers, but she’s heard stories about him. She knows, deep in her bones, that he was not half the earthbender that she is.

Margaery joins in. She’s just as good as Shireen, which is a surprise in and of itself, but apparently, she knows more than just a little about earthbending without the use of one’s legs- her brother is a master of architecture despite his leg injury, can make roses of stone bloom along Highgarden’s walls. Margaery herself picked up metalbending as quickly as Gendry could teach it to her, and she passes that knowledge along to Bran.

Brandon Stark, the Avatar himself, is a rather sweet teenage boy, with a brightness in his eyes that Shireen recognizes in her own. They stand together, a woman grown who’s fled her husband’s family, the Avatar himself without the use of his legs, and the Storm Queen, a girl of fifteen.

“What a trio we make,” she says, halfway to bitter already. She cannot teach Bran her Seismic Sense- he cannot feel his legs, he will not be able to see with his feet- but she doesn’t need to. Margaery may know the  _ forms _ for a brother that cannot walk, but Shireen has lived such things, knows what it means to have everyone think you’re a fragile little thing when you are, in truth, more powerful than they could ever imagine.

Shireen still remembers what her father had said to her, on his deathbed, when the Tyrells had long since left the room- that he had  _ two _ daughters in truth, and that he was proud of them both, so, so proud that he’d sired two Queens. Shireen remembers sobbing, clutching his wounded hand in hers, but knowing he’d spoken truth.

Queen Sansa had been the sister she’d always wanted, the sister she’d never had until she’d clung tightly to the skirts of a girl with hair as red as flame. Queen Sansa is kind and gentle, but sharp and fierce at the same time, like steel under velvet.

_ ‘Honey traps more flies than vinegar,’ _ she’d told Shireen once, quietly, ‘ _ Your father is honest, like mine was, like I strive to be. But honesty does not always keep you alive. My father was honest. He died for it.’ _

Her father had died for it too. King Stannis had not been asked to fight the treasonous side of the Karstark family and their forces. In fact, he’d been asked to stay in White Harbor, or at the very least, the opportunity had been offered to back out, to stay and prepare for the White Walkers and their terrible raised dead.

But Sansa Stark had been like a sister to Shireen, and so she had been like a daughter to King Stannis, at least in his eyes. He’d cheered her sense of justice, the iron in her voice, the way she rode into battle the same as her men but did not fall into vices like Robert had at her age. She is the warrior-daughter while Shireen is the scholar, and while Stannis had not loved Ned Stark like a brother in life, he respected him in death, promising to protect his children like he would his own. And he did.

And so, King Stannis rode to battle with the Karstarks. And when his men were losing spirit, despite his talent being in the commander’s tent, despite his distaste for the battlefield, he had ridden out with his men, had made one last, desperate charge, and they’d won.

Shireen knows why her father had done it, knows that he would not let either the daughter of his blood or her sister by bond be under the thumb of the Boltons. He’d said that it was his duty as a father and a King, and that he trusted her to carry on his legacy.

Storm Queen, Shireen Baratheon weeps at her father’s bedside, before standing tall and proud. Good food and time have let her grow. She stands near as tall as her father had been, looking more like Mya every day. The Baratheon women will not be cowed.

She  _ will _ ensure this Avatar is a competent earthbender. And then, she will lift her head again, will wear an antlered crown and stand at the walls of Storm’s End with lightning in her eyes.

* * *

Jojen and Meera Reed do not keep Summer from his siblings. The wolf plays with the only two other direwolves they have. There are whispers of more, fleeing South from the Others like the wildlings have, that men of the Watch will open the gate for the massive beasts gladly. Sansa does not care for these rumors much, but the idea of more wolves south of the Wall gives a surprising amount of hope to the people, a good omen for the Stark line. Sansa just hopes that is what it is, not some sort of sign that they should refrain from going beyond the Wall.

And yet, she has chosen the stand she will make. Shipments of dragonglass arrive every day, and they send them on to the Wall. The Ladies Zahara, Alexandria, and the Skeir heiress, Fira, are the quickest to start firebending training out in the open, but Kieran and Jon and Aegon follow soon after. Firebenders pop every which way out of the woodwork, all ready and eager to train.

Sansa takes the waterbenders, along with her uncle and Brienne. Margaery and Gendry and Mya and Shireen take the earthbenders, teaching them everything they can. They are brilliant teachers, and more than a few lords whisper that if the Queen is to look for a match in a woman, Lady Margaery is a more than welcome choice.

Podrick, surprisingly, ends up leading the training of the airbenders. Most don’t see the use in such, but Sansa stands and reminds them that it is the wind that fills their sails and makes their arrows fly straight, and while she will not expect them to force the weather itself into submission, she knows that it is folly to expect them to stand back and do nothing.

And so, they fortify Winterfell, and the other lords and ladies go to their keeps to do the same, stockpiling dragonglass whenever they can get it, digging pits filled with wooden spikes poised to catch, filling barrels with oil in preparation to light any wights who come anywhere near them. And then, there is a raven from the south, and everything goes to shit.

Well, it doesn’t, they’re still preparing just fine.

* * *

Jon trusts that his siblings will keep Ghost safe. Aegon comes with him, when they journey South.

_ “You cannot let her bring her dragons,”  _ Bran had said, his eyes off somewhere different,  _ “And you cannot let her think of this war like a war against men and women. It is not even a war against beasts, but a war against  _ things,  _ and things do not fear bloodriders.” _

Before he’d left, Lady Stoneheart and Sansa had pushed a legitimization into his hands. Sansa had called him a prince, her brother- Lady Stoneheart had rasped of promises kept and gone to find Bran.

They'd settled into a strange routine, when Lady Stoneheart and him had reunited. She's not quite Lady Catelyn- Bran is supposed to be the bridge between human and spirit worlds (and isn't that strange- his brother,  _ the _ Avatar), so perhaps he could change that- but she has enough of Lady Catelyn left in her that she mothers Jon like one of the rest of her children. Jon wonders if he's meant to be a replacement for Robb, the way she looks as if she's about to begin sobbing when she wraps long fingers around his curls, and whispers “red”.

Prince Jon Stark shakes his head out of his memories and ducks when a dragon swoops overhead. Ser Davos stands beside him. He's sworn himself to Queen Shireen, but a King, a Prince, and a Hand make quite the impressive retinue, if he does say so himself.

For the most part, they’ve come alone, with only the men needed to man the ship.

Queen Daenerys sits atop her great chair. Her titles are many, as are King Aegon’s, when he is announced.

“Prince Jon Stark, elder bastard brother to the Queen in the North, the Red Wolf, Sansa Stark,” he says. Queen Daenerys’s surprisingly dark eyebrows rise. Missandei, who seems to be a trusted advisor of some kind, gives a warm smile.

“Lord Jon-”

“Prince Jon,” King Aegon corrects, “My lady, if I do recall, even by Dornish rule, my claim supersedes yours, as the only living of an eldest.”

“Not quite true, actually; but lovely little Rhaenys renounced all claims years ago.”

The voice is the Spider’s. A few jaws drop, but Aegon only smiles.

“I knew Mother would never let me leave if Rhaenys wasn't leaving, too,” he says softly, “She might have let herself die to sell the ruse, but she wouldn't have let Rhaenys die. She would have gotten her out in time.”

“Little Rhaenys is a septa in the Starry Sept, you can go meet her if you'd like. She is to run a great motherhouse someday, I believe- still a willful woman, even now, eager to protect the weak.”

“While that is wonderful to hear,” Ser Davos says in his gruff Fleabottom accent that sounds so much like Gendry’s (and how has Jon not noticed the way he grieves over his lost King?), “We’re not here for reunions. There’s a grave threat beyond the Wall. Any who die can be raised from the dead, but soul-less, more like animals with foamin’-mouth.”

It’s an apt description, and it makes the surprisingly  _ not _ pale Daenerys grow as lily-white as the songs say she is.

“And what would you have me do?”

“Allow us to keep mining the dragonglass on Dragonstone, Your Grace,” Jon cuts in, “And then allow us to go home. You have no use for dragonglass, and they have need of us back at the Wall. And whatever you do,  _ please _ do not send your dragons beyond the Wall. If they were to fall- and they would, the Night King can wield the weather and an ice-spear better than most waterbenders I’ve met- the Night King could make them rise again, slaves to his undead army.”

He hopes his word choice is effective for the Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, and it seems to be. “Slaves” hits her, and the idea of her reptilian children being such hits her harder.

“We will renegotiate after you’ve won this war against the dead of yours, Prince Jon,” she says, “But for now- gods. I will not stop you, as long as you do not get in mine own way. You will have all the dragonglass in Dragonstone, should you have need of it.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he says. King Aegon is looking at his aunt curiously, but leaves the same as they do.

“How do you know that?” Aegon whispers fiercely, “We could use the dragons against the wights-”

“Because the Free Folk have seen it before,” Jon says, voice hollow (he  _ cannot _ let them know of all the power that Bran possesses, not with a virtual unknown at the table), “The Free Folk have seen birds as large as her dragons felled by their ice-spears. We have firebenders, and firebenders are just as good.”

Something doesn’t feel right, in that, of course. Something tells Jon they  _ will _ need the dragons, just as they will need Bran, but for now- for now, firebenders are enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jk i've been trying to get this chapter out for months. it's taken a long time to finish the next one, especially since I got distracted (SHINY) by clone wars and primeval like I was twelve years old again (just kidding, i love both of those shows and it wasn't really a total impulse decision). I've doubled the amount of fics I have, though.  
(seriously, though, if you're like me and you like creating content, PLEASE watch primeval the fandom is nearly nonexistent)  
also, i really like robb and jon actually just looking like recolors of one another. and not even good recolors. and then lady stoneheart getting super distracted by this.


	19. the women with the bright eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys Targaryen comes north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright!

Daenerys Targaryen comes North anyways. There’s something behind her eyes, something fierce and angry and wounded, but she brings only dragonglass and loyal soldiers armed with it.

Sansa stands, every inch the Queen. Shireen stands with her, as do Lysa Arryn and Margaery Tyrell.

In the corner of her eye, Sansa makes note of how much Shireen has grown. Sansa thinks she must be near as tall as her father and mother were. The food of the North and her blood have done her well.

Lysa and Arya are close, closer than Sansa had expected them to be. Lysa and Arya both spit on the spot where Petyr Baelish’s burt remains have been buried every day.

Daenerys speaks with her nephew often. They all make quite the group, three queens (or, arguably for queens) and a king all crowded into Winterfell. Sansa’s men are to move to the Wall, and soon, but more dragonglass is more dragonglass. And the Wall has stood for eight thousand years.

Margaery does wonderfully. Her voice has hardened and the falseness has faded away from it during her time in the North, and she speaks plain as day.

“Your grace,” she says, curt instead of elegant. She sounds almost like Shireen, which Sansa almost thinks is strange until she remembers that Shireen has inherited just a touch of her mother’s tone, and that her mother is a Reacher above all else.

“Your grace,” Sansa says, even more curt. She softens out to a smile when Jon returns to her own side, as Shireen smiles when Ser Davos returns to hers.

“Your graces,” Queen Daenerys says, and to her credit, she’s rather calm. She’d heard stories, of how the Dragon Queen is very convinced in her own superiority and her right to the throne, but those stories must have been from years ago, for the woman who stands before her now looks as if she wants to cling tightly to her advisor and military commander and never let go. She’s shaken, unsteady, but there is steel in her spine and fire in her eyes.

And she has not brought her dragons, and so her dragons will not be part of the Night King’s army.

Some of the men had grumbled about that, about not being able to use the mighty beasts, but there had been voices that rang louder than the rest, and the hall had grown cold and quiet, and fire had burst in the palms of many.

Queen Daenerys brings a great number of firebenders, now, as many as she can spare. Most of them are barely trained, if at all, which makes sense considering most of them are Unsullied and would therefore not have been taught skills that would make them anything other than interchangeable.

The most trained among them are the few Dothraki firebenders. From what Sansa can understand, most Dothraki who can bend lean towards airbending, but Daenerys has brought enough with her to Westeros that there are a number of firebenders among them.

“The North appreciates the assistance, Your Grace,” Sansa replies. They are not the only visitors here, it seems. There are others- faces that Jon finds oh so familiar, and that Sansa is glad to see in turn.

Samwell Tarly will dine with them tonight, as will Gilly and her son. She seems to take a shine to Mya, who leans on her cane exaggeratedly with a bright, warm smile. The Baratheon bastard girl flushes whenever Gilly says something sweet, and she earthbends in as much style as she can manage. Sansa hides a smile under the neck of her cloak and leans into Margaery with a bright smile.

* * *

Margaery is of the opinion that she should probably smack the her of the past and lecture her about how being romantically entangled with a Queen is far better than being a Queen oneself.

Sansa is sweet, and her fiery hair is always there for Margaery to run her hands through, and she’s a better bender than any other romantic partner that Margaery has ever had, though that’s not much of a competition- the closest anyone else had ever come was Renly, and he wasn’t a particularly good earthbender. Skilled enough, of course, but she beat him far more than he ever beat her.

She tangles her strong hands in with Sansa’s clever ones, and offers a smile- a genuine one, not the smirk she offers to everyone else, and Sansa smiles back.

“Would you like to oversee healing training with me, my lady?” she asks, voice as gentle as a whisper. Margaery resists a blush and accepts the offer with grace.

Sansa is a natural healer. She’s a good enough fighter- good enough not to die, but several years of combative waterbending training from two masters of the craft will do that to a person- but she is a fantastic healer. A few firebenders in the rotation warm up the water for her, so it won’t freeze on her patients, who are anywhere between young children and the elderly, who need to avoid sickness as much as they can, but otherwise, she acts without help. Princess Arya, and Princes Bran and Rickon (Avatar Bran, Margaery corrects internally, watching this sweet boy watch his sister with wide, soft eyes) observe. The young Avatar seems to be the only one showing any promise, but slowly and surely, the other two begin to learn at least something. Sansa smiles, and turns to them, once their last patient has left for the day.

“I’m sure you’d get it if you spent enough time on it,” she hums, patting her siblings on their hair, “but I fear you two are fighters, not healers. You should spend as much time as you can training with Uncle Brynden and Lady Brienne- they’ll be far better help than I will.”

“Can’t you teach us?” little Rickon whines. Sansa laughs.   
“I can hold my own, but I fight as a waterbender amongst non-benders armed with short-range weapons. I am no match against a far more skilled waterbending master, especially not one like the Lady Brienne. I still have bad habits I must unlearn, but Lady Brienne and Uncle Brynden are used to teaching.”

There are a few nods. Denna opens a dark eye from where she sits in the corner of the room with Nymeria and Summer.

Margaery stands, feeling just a little bit out of place in this family gathering, and only feels more so when the half-corpse of Queen Sansa’s mother arrives with Prince Jon (and Ghost) in tow. And then feels less so when Gilly, Sam, and Mya step in after them. It’s a crowded room, to say the least.

“Ah, Lady Margaery, just the woman I wanted to see!” Mya says, a grin in her blue eyes, “Queen Shireen and I got into a bit of an argument, as us cousins tend to do! She’s very fond of you, in a hero-worshipping kind of fashion, Queen Sansa, don’t worry, my royal cousin isn’t going to steal your lady love from you, and was of the opinion that she would lose to you in an earthbending match. I, on the other hand, I beg your pardon, was convinced she could at least bring it to a draw. Now, we don’t have time for that now, of course! But I figured it would be good luck. To make plans for  _ after. _ ”

“Come back in one piece,” Sansa says, and Margaery gives her just the faintest kiss on the cheek, before prancing out of the room.

* * *

“When do you think they’re finally going to do it?” Zira asks, leaning back into Alexandria’s side, who leans into Kieran’s side.

The middle person in their firebender sandwich wrinkles her nose.

“I hope she finds someone better, he’s a sisterfucker and an ass of one at that. She deserves better.”

“We all know she probably doesn’t think so.”

“She doesn’t,” Kieran interrupts. His cousins look to him, look to each other, and shrug.

“Alright, then. Are you going to help us help her with her self esteem or are you just going to sit there and stare at the training grounds until they’re covered in snow?”

“I,” Kieran grumbles, “Am going to go follow maps for troop movements. Zira, I believe you had some interest in seeing how the troop movements intermingle with disease reports?”

“I did! Good luck, Alex!”

Alexandria snorts, and waves them both off. Her half-sister chatters excitedly. The firebender isn’t much of a healer, for obvious reasons, but the second she’d heard she couldn’t be a Maester, she’d decided to get as close as she could to it, and she has quite the passion for investigating disease.

In the next section of the training yard, Bran Stark and Mya Stone yell at each other. Loudly.

_ “And you didn’t think it was  _ important _ to learn them in order?! _ ”

“ _ I  _ am _ learning them in order, just  _ backwards!” Prince Bran yells in reply, “ _ Not like we had an Earthbending teacher from where we were beyond the Wall!” _

Kieran wisely decides to stay the hell out of it, and moves onwards.

In fact, that’s the worst possible idea, because the two Targaryen claimants are snapping at each other over that oversized iron chair, and Shireen quietly eyes him from the corner of the hall with a ‘help me’ stare. Kieran mimes for her to go outside- she’s probably better off kicking Prince Bran’s overconfidence into the ground- and quietly slips past them.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he says to Queen Sansa and Ladies Margaery and Olenna, the last of whom stares at him curiously, “The rest of the royals have been shouting at each other practically nonstop, I’d thought I should come in and see if anyone would like the fire to be up a little higher. Anything to get away from that tiff.”

“Ah, good, Kieran, we were going to speak about where to place the firebenders.”

Kieran knows everyone's still not entirely sure about his presence here (he's a bastard from a lesser member of a bannerwoman’s house, of course), but he's still mostly sure he's earned his spot and he’ll stand his ground on that.

“Firebending is usually mid-range, not long-range or mixed-range like the other elements can be. It takes a very skilled bender to maintain distance. At least a few should be around to light wildfire or pitch or oil to pour upon the wights when they come, and a group of firebenders paired with at least one Earthbender wielding dragonglass or a swordsman wielding Valyrian Steel would not go amiss.”

“Oil,” Lady Margaery says, “I’d forgotten about oil, and how it burns.”

“Most do,” Kieran admits freely, “Wildfire is much, much flashier, but it also burns quicker and hotter and is far more volatile. I believe the saltpeter mixture from White Harbor acts in a similar fashion, though it is also more controlled, similar to boiling oil.”

“The saltpeter mixture can actually be used in conjunction with metal tubing and a projectile to create a concussive blast of force that fires the projectile at tremendous speeds. I’ve signed the request forms to pay for research into a small prototype that could be mounted on a ship and used for naval offense. We  _ cannot _ forget Cersei Lannister and we  _ cannot _ forget Euron Greyjoy, even though we have to get through the Night King first,” Sansa hums.

“Right, absolutely. Although I do believe the best course of action regarding Theon Greyjoy would be to ask his nephew and, if we can find her, his niece.”

“Asha Greyjoy is apparently in her uncle’s  _ tender _ care at the moment,” Lady Olenna replies, tipping her head towards Sansa and Margaery graciously, but in a way that suggests that the only reason she hasn’t forgotten that Kieran exists is that he’s still around to make her life more difficult, “And I do believe Lord Theon is not particularly in the right state of mind for an interrogation, and he’s not even  _ here _ .”

“We could get a message to Theon, I think,” Sansa says, “Ask him to send one back, though that does run the risk of tipping off Cersei.”

“That’s a plan for another day,” Lady Margaery says, “We wait for them to arrive at the Wall, and we meet them there. That’s the best we have at the moment, and it’s the best we’re likely to get, too.”

“What non-human assets do we have, at the moment?” Lady Olenna asks with a sigh.

“The cavalry- what little we have, at least- won’t be deployed unless they break through the Wall. A cavalry charge is vital against a  _ human _ enemy, but wights have no fear and they will  _ not _ break rank if they are held back, and their ‘rank’ is little more than a seething mass of the dead. We have the direwolves, of course, but there are not many of them, and of the cavelions and beardogs, even less.”

Lady Margaery’s eyebrows rise in unison, but she says nothing else.

* * *

Jaime Lannister thinks that this is the first time he’s genuinely felt both afraid and entirely unafraid of everyone around him. This, of course, is primarily due to the fact that no matter how many times his tongue slips or he shoves his gods-forsaken foot into his mouth, they’re not liable to kill him for his misconduct. Even when it had been his own son- gods, he’d walked on eggshells in Joffrey’s court. When he sees Queen Sansa or Queen Margaery, though, he winces harder.

Joffrey had been a cruel, cruel boy. Had he had a hint of anything other than Lannister in him, Jaime would have called the boy Robert’s- for all that Robert was a King, he was also a cruel man, and even crueler to his children. Nothing like the father he’d helped with ripping from the Starks, for all that they’d been raised together.

Queen Daenerys (and there are quite a few Queens and Kings lying about now, aren’t there) has brought Ser Barristan along with her. Ser Barristan looks to Jaime with a surprisingly low level of disgust, now- more along the lines of pity.

“Ser Jaime,” says Queen Sansa’s favorite sworn sword, golden eyes burning with hidden fire, “Are you alright?”

Jaime jerks at not being called  _ kingslayer _ by someone other than Brienne for once outside of a professional setting. Kieran Snow cocks his head to the side, offers a warm smile, and the small flame he holds in his palms.

“Well, this is a change,” he replies. Snow hums.

“We might very well die before the moon’s turn, Ser Jaime, there’s not much of a reason for me to continue to glare at you when Lady Brienne thinks so highly of you. And speaking of, that’s why I’m here.”

Jaime turns to stare at him.

“If you’re interested, I’m not going to stand in your-”

Warm fingers waggle in Jaime’s face.

“Not  _ me _ , you. Queen Sansa sent me herself to tell you to get your act together and  _ ask her _ before anyone else does, because believe me, I know at least a dozen men and three dozen women who would throw themselves at her feet if they thought they had a sliver of a chance.”

Jaime rubs his good hand into his hair.

“I-”

Snow stalks away, head held high and face impassive. It breaks into a smile when he’s dragged towards the firebender’s training grounds. Jaime stands and shivers, considering.

Brienne’s on the other side of the courtyard.

He can do this.

She looks up, and offers him a smile. Those massive shoulders bunch up in a shrug, and Jaime goes faint.

He can’t do this.

* * *

“So,” she says, “Between planning a war, planning another war, and  _ hopefully _ finally pushing Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime together-”

There’s a quiet whoop from Arya in their little planning circle, and an even softer laugh from Margaery, who has her legs tucked under her and is sitting in the least ostentatious article of clothing Sansa’s ever gotten to see her in. She leans into Sansa’s side, and wraps a sleeve-covered hand around Sansa’s other shoulder.

“Awww,” Jon says.

“Shut up, you’re still hung up on Sam,” Bran bites. Laughter fills the little room. They’re together again, soft and sweet, possibly for the last time they’ll ever be able to. They all know better than to ask Bran what will happen, to ask him to lay out the plan for them, because they all know damn well that’s not how his foresight works.

Lady Stoneheart is humming in a way that was once unsettling but is now more sweet than anything else, braiding Sansa’s hair with her cold hands, running her fingers through it and looking like she’s going to start crying if anything happens.

“It’s alright, Mother,” Sansa says, the woman who was once her mother rasping into the warm air of the fire, seeking comfort like she’s sought nothing in her life before.

Sansa remembers what it felt like, to feel numb. She remembers what it was, before Shae had been kind to her, before Kieran and Mya had rescued her.

“I owe Stannis Baratheon a hundred times over, you know,” she says, voice soft. Margaery’s head jerks up, and her eyes widen in genuine surprise, something that’s become more common since she’s left that pit of vipers in the South.

“What brought this up?”

“The wildfire,” she says, “I escaped the night of the wildfire, the night that Stannis attacked King’s Landing. They said I would need to hide in fear and hope for a Lannister victory, should I wish to keep my maidenhood, or at least my head.”

“I’ve never heard your side of the story, you know,” Margaery says, eyes sparkling, “Yours or Mya’s or Kieran’s. Only the Lannister side, and they were not keen on sharing details, should another fine maiden attempt the same.”

Sansa laughs.

“Oh, you’d find it easier than I, I am sure of that much. It was the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, and the wildfire had already been lit. All of the castle’s defenders, it seemed, had gone down to the bay to guard the gate. Except, of course, for one…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, the plan is for this fic to be done at least by Chapter 22 or so, maybe a short (1k or so) word epilogue making up a 23rd chapter, or fuse 21 and 22 into one and have 22 be the short epilogue. Either way, we're nearing the end! and i'm excited- being done with this means i'm allowed to work on some of my other works in progress without judgement from myself :)


	20. watchers on the walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hohoho... the fight!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello. how did this happen so fast, you may ask? simple answer: I Vibed

It takes days- well over a week- to get to the Wall. By the time they do, there's not much time left. They can see the army across the way, their spears held high, a great mass of the dead against the Wall, which grows higher with Bran’s presence- at least, it seems to be such.

“He’s come for me,” her little brother says. Sansa grits her teeth and narrows her bright blue eyes, and flicks them to the rest of her living siblings, away from the Avatar.

Well, almost all of the rest. Rickon, of course, is in White Harbor. If the dead are spotted en masse beyond the Wall, he’ll be shipped away, along with dozens of little lordlings and ladies and hundreds of common folk, one big, long exodus away from this place.

Jon has his fire ignited in his hands, looking to all the world like some ghost from the most frightening of tales from her childhood. Arya grips tightly to her knives, and her staff- one of them Valyrian Steel, taken from the Ironborn ships that had come with Lady Greyjoy- and dragonglass from Gendry, and everything else in between.

Speaking of the Baratheons, they man this wall too. Shireen had shown Sansa her little letter, that all of her cousins from her uncle’s attentions to the many women of the realm will be legitimized if anything should happen to her life here, or her ability to have children in the future.

Gendry stands tall, running wires between his fingers. Mya is unmoving, a wall of stone at Sansa’s side. She may not have the same mobility that she’d had prior to the fight with Ramsey Snow, but she’s still a formidable opponent, especially armed to the teeth with dragonglass as she is now.

On Sansa’s other side, quiet like a shadowcat stalking through the night, is Kieran. There’s something in the way the fire flickers across his eyes that betrays his fear, how he feels when he sees the seething mass so far below them.

“If you kill a White Walker,” Jon reminds her, “Their wights fall, which makes them the priority. The Night King is the highest of them.”

“We know that, Jon,” Sansa says, “I’ll be down in the healer’s hall. Remember not to fight until you’re dead- just fight until  _ they’re _ dead. I’d prefer it if I didn’t have to kill you all because you were idiotic and got yourselves killed first.”

There’s trepidation in her bones, a warning. Sansa can’t find her mother in the crowd, but she does her best to heal when she can. Margaery stands guard, next to her, alongside Mya, who’s followed Sansa down to the healing halls.

She’ll need all the help she can get.

All of them will.

* * *

Jon  _ burns _ , and so do oh-so-many of the rest of them. The firebenders have been training to maximize output for as long as they’ve known this is a threat, and it certainly shows- swathes of wights fall to burning. Even more so, it seems, when the dragons arrive.

Something deep in Jon’s skin knows that this is wrong, that something terrible is going to happen. The cream-and-gold dragon flies to Aegon, though the young king makes no attempt to ride him, while Daenerys takes her usual mount up into the air, burning and burning and  _ burning _ .

The sun is still with them, and the air and waterbenders keep the Night King’s storm at bay, at least enough for the rest of them to see and aim. More and more White Walkers begin to fall, taking wights with them. It seems, for the most part, to be going well.

And still, Jon worries. Many have died, over the course of the battle- it’s fully possible that still more will by the end, and they will be facing friends and family when the Night King raises them all again. And Lady Catelyn is still missing.

Jon spots Brienne of Tarth in the corner of his eye, fighting with all that she has, spots firebenders he knows and firebenders he doesn’t trying their best to bend the dragonfire away from them and towards the wights when it comes too close.

Smoke begins to fill his lungs- and Podrick is there, the young airbender, to insure their lungs still work the way that they should. Brienne waves, from where she stands, and Jon keeps bending and hacking with his sword when he sees the need.

The dragons continue to circle. Jon’s heart hammers in his chest with worry. He knows, deep in his bones, that something will happen, that their good luck so far will fail them, that they need to fear their greatest ally in this fight.

Jon  _ hates _ when he’s right, sometimes, and he hates it more than ever, now, when the cream and white dragon falls, crashing onto the fighting men and wights below, and rises, staggeringly, fire blue and eyes angry.

Something screams back at him- or rather, someone, eyes just as blue, hair the inky black of midnight, with greyscale scars covering half of her tiny face. Jon’s breath hitches- that can only be one person, amongst this swirling mass of bastards and lords and ladies and kings and queens.

Shireen Baratheon, Queen of the Stormlands, steps forwards, shaking, and the ground- hidden deep below the ice and snow, it seems, but not so deep, not so deep it cannot be felt- shakes with her.

Jon thinks that maybe, if they’re lucky, they’ll be able to survive this mess. He looks onwards, sees violet fire and dragonfire and the blue of the white dragon’s new flames mingling together, steels his spine, and charges.

More blue flares across the landscape, paired with rushing water- the Moran heiresses, he thinks. Speaking of, Kieran rushes past him, leaping over a dead horse and stabbing a White Walker in the eyesocket. Panting, he grins at Jon, and rushes off again. There’s a howl, heard from even this most chaotic side of the Wall- anger, hate, and a smidgeon of fear. Denna’s.

Ice fills his veins, for a moment- fear for his siblings. A raven rushes past, even faster than Kieran had been, eyes glowing white-blue, and Jon relaxes- Bran does not seem so frantic, at the very least, which suggests they might very well be alright.

Jon shakes his head, and slams a wight over its with Longclaw.

This is going to be a long day.

* * *

Aegon doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, where he’s supposed to go. It’s hectic, to say the least- there is fire everywhere, and the ice doesn’t stick right, and the earth has been dug up in a great variety of places around the battlefield. He takes cover behind one of the massive boulders that Queen Shireen has tossed around, and clears his head.

A young woman- Princess Arya, he remembers- takes cover with him.

“We’re closer to the Wall, here,” she says, half out of breath, “Honestly, I would have- Gendry, come on, get  _ back _ here- I would have preferred less open terrain. Also, why haven’t we been using fire arrows from a distance?”

“Firebenders are mid-range,” Gendry replies, “And most of the fire could have gone out by the time they got to the wights, so-”

He pauses to take another breath, and groans, “So, we needed to take the fight down here. Less controlled, more hectic, but at least most of our forces are on the  _ other _ side of that wall.”

“The wall that’s currently coming down?” Arya hisses, “Look.”

Aegon does look, with a princess and a king’s bastard beside him. The dragon that had wanted so terribly to be his- he is gone, now, and the monster that has replaced him burns blue like spirit fire, blue like forge fire, blue like-

“Like death,” Arya hums. Gendry grabs a spike of dragonglass- though what the earthbender plans to  _ do _ with it, Aegon doesn’t know. Quick on their feet, a small form moves past them, dashing between wights and white walkers and making a beeline for the great beast keeping itself aloft on ragged, hole-filled wings. Recognition flickers in the back of Aegon’s head, the kind of remembering that tries to tell him  _ something _ about what’s going to happen- anything, anything at all.

“Was that Shireen?” Arya asks. Gendry’s eyes widen in surprise and horror. This is right about the time when the entire battlefield  _ explodes _ with fire, bright and raging like a living thing, eating anything and everything that crosses its greedy path.

Aegon has never been afraid of fire, but looking out on the field, so close to him, so powerful and angry and yet somehow constrained, he thinks he understands the reason why some people have that fear, and why it’s such a reasonable fear indeed.

“Bran,” Arya whispers. Gendry continues to stare, blue instead of gold and orange reflected in his horror-filled eyes.

“Let’s go,” Aegon says, and hopes he sounds more confident than he feels, “We have a Queen to assist.”

“Which one?” the princess hiss-laughs through gritted teeth. Her eyes flicker between the fires as well, and if he’s to be honest, Aegon doesn’t feel much but pity and worry for the younger girl who fights with such grace.

“I think the answer’s obvious,” Aegon responds, standing to his feet with grace, and hauling up Baratheon and Stark behind him. The great challenge to scale stands in front of him, but-

But he’s certain, above all things, that they can manage it.

No matter how much it may take from them.

Aegon’s eyes catch to Jon, his Jon, the only father he’s ever known, so far away now. It’s his turn, now, to fight for his right to the throne, to prove to the Seven Kingdoms he is worthy of being its king.

And he  _ will _ prove it to them.

No matter what it takes.

* * *

Bran knows the battle is not going well, but this is more awful than he’d expected. He darts between fighters in a raven’s skin, before switching to dozens upon dozens in his flock, challenging all the while-  _ come get me, you can’t. You cannot come beyond the wall, there are Old Things that hold you back, and you can’t catch me, I won’t let you. _ And he thinks it’s working, at first, with the Night King’s focus faltering when it’s critical at the stimulation, irritation- if it is that- flashing in his cold, cruel blue eyes.

And yet.

And yet, the creature of the cold pulls one arm back, and throws, and the aim is true and the dragon falls, and Bran wakes, breathing fast, his sister’s hand in his own, and for the first time in what seems like such a long time, he truly  _ sees _ her, and she sees him in turn.

They are two of a kind, it seems. Denna howls, angry and deep and loud, a sound of challenge that screams  _ here I am and you cannot take mine from me, you cowards, you cravens- my paws will break you before you can touch them, I promise you that. _

His sister growls with her, bright blue eyes narrowed, hair running like fire.

Fire. Bran’s not all that good at fire, no matter how long he’s spent training, but he  _ needs _ it now, needs it to come to him like air and water did, needs to push outwards, to be fierce and demanding and taking no prisoners. When he looks Sansa in the eyes again, she understands, and pulls her hands back, going back to her patients, the injured that need her to work her magic and do what she needs to do. Bran’s breathing steadies, and he closes his eyes again, not in a raven’s body this time, but in his own, rising, rising, rising.

When he opens his eyes the next time, they are aglow, and he is bigger and fiercer than he’s ever been before- not like the three dragons circling ahead of them, but protected, different, infinite in his own form. He is eight thousand years of memory in the body of one, and this one most certainly  _ remembers. _

He can see, like ants, far down below, his family, his people, those that count on him to make this right.

And so, like it should always be, the Avatar enters the fight. A promise, shaking the ground, a promise made from sweat and tears and blood and the smell of dragonfire.

_ I will not falter. _

* * *

Shireen only barely notes the burning down below as she vaults up her progressively higher spires of rock and soil. The Wall itself is filled with earth, in only the way an Avatar could have made it, and she will take advantage of that now, as the great beast melts it away. The torn wings of the dragon, somehow keeping it aloft despite the nonsensicality of such a fact, brush past her head. Shireen holds her ground, and grips tighter onto her blades of dragonglass, knowing deep in her bones that  _ this is it _ . What matters, right here, right now, is this, is whether or not she can sink those blades into the dragon’s eyes from such a distance and send the Night King toppling to the ground below.

With arms of water freezing over, Princess Arya lands beside her, Shrieen’s bastard cousin and King Aegon following. Shireen sucks in a greedy breath, and begins to shout.

The dragon’s attention is grabbed soon enough. Shireen does not have a mount of her own, which means this will have to do. She runs, and ducks, and makes sure to let Aegon re-direct the dragonfire, but if Shireen’s father has taught her anything, it’s when to stand her ground and dig her heels in and grit her teeth, prepared for the weight she has to push against.

Shireen is not just any old earthbender. She is Queen of the Stormlands, her father’s daughter. A descendent of the Storm Queen, Argella Durrandon, and her arrogant father. If Argella could stand against dragons, before her men betrayed her, Shireen can, too. She can hear, even from all the way up here, the Stormlands men that had followed her father and uncle whispering, watching, staring.

Shireen  _ needs _ her aim to be true. The first two blades miss- redirected by the Night King himself. Arya launches herself at the dragon, water-whips at the ready, and Shireen takes the momentary distraction to hurl the third dragonglass dagger into the dragon’s eye, and further, until the beast spasms and dies for the second time in a day, and the Night King falls to the ground, so far below them.

* * *

Sansa can see her mother, moving through the Wall.

She does not stop her, but she does follow, hands on Retribution as she moves through wights and White Walkers alike, eyes on her siblings. Margaery follows, darts of dragonglass leaving her fingers and returning again, quick as the snap of a whip.

* * *

There are few things in the world more fierce than a mother’s love, and Catelyn Stark may very well be one of the fiercest among them, for here she stands, dead once before, the Valyrian Steel dagger that had once nearly killed her son. Jaime Lannister thinks this is fitting, that the dead woman should march in the War Against the Dead with a knife that had nearly started such a war at her side, before he realizes that the shade of Catelyn Stark is standing in the middle of the battle- no, not standing, marching forwards, cutting through wights like the knife has been heated in boiling oil.

Brienne notices first, and breaks out into a run, Oathkeeper slashing when and where it can. Heartsbane, which Jaime holds in his own hands, is almost uncomfortably heavy, but he still uses it when he’s capable, resisting the urge to ask Brienne to switch.

He can see, up ahead of them, a battle for the ages- Catelyn Stark’s deep auburn hair catching the last rays of the sun as it dips below the horizon, the flash of the dagger like a wolf’s tooth, the feral cry that rips from her throat when she brings it down.

The Night King shatters, and the battle stills. White Walkers break apart, and wights drop, and Catelyn Stark falls, eyes glassy.

Jaime looks around for the man who can bring people back from the dead, or the Red Woman, or anyone, really, but he sees the red coat flapping in the wind and the corpse of the man who was once a priest on fire, and understands that this particular magic is-

_ “She’s ready to go,” _ a voice in a deep, deep timbre says, a hundred voices in one, really. Jaime whips his head back around to see Bran Stark, eyes aglow- or, really, that’s not Bran Stark now, is it? It’s the Avatar, in all his glory. If Jaime looks hard enough, he can see the wisps of a spirit gathering together, smiling in pride.

“You think,” Samwell Tarly asks, panting, and Jaime hands him back his father’s sword when he stretches his hands out, “That your sister will just surrender, after this?”

“Oh, no,” Jaime replies, “This is going to be the  _ second _ hard fight.”

“Alright,” Sam hums, “I’ll go warn Queen Sansa.”

Off in the distance, in this wide battlefield that stretches for miles, Jaime can hear the Stormlands men chanting  _ Durrandon. _

* * *

“She’s at peace, you know,” Bran says, “She’s proud of herself for protecting her children, and she’s proud of us for making what we’ve made of ourselves. Should I send a raven to White Harbor, tell them Rickon can come home?”

Sansa stares at the snow ahead of her. Winter is not nearly done, and it will not be done for months- maybe even years- yet, but it still feels like they’ve gotten past the most of the challenges, and now, it is simply the long haul that’s left. The sky is still dark, but now-

All of a sudden, light flickers across the sky, green and blue, long, shimmering streamers that Sansa has not seen for years. She gasps, and hears Margaery gasp, too.

“I suppose that’s a good sign for yes,” Sansa replies, a smile on her face, before it drops.

“Quickly. We need to plan our assault on King’s Landing and the Iron Fleet- the latter more than the former,” she hums, “And remember- we must be wary of wildfire.”

“Don’t I know that much,” Margaery bites in reply.

* * *

Miles and miles south, Tommen Hill takes his last, gasping breaths, struggling with useless legs onto his side. Even further south, Myrcella Hill startles awake, green eyes wide and bloodshot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's gonna be 22 chapters... and they're all done! They're going up now!


	21. queens among them, high and mighty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a bit quick, but I liked sappy Sansaery better than writing politics :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aww...

The attack on the Iron Fleet is disastrous, to say the least. Oh, it’s successful. Sort of. Half the fleet is gone, but unfortunately-

Euron Greyjoy is a bloodbender. A very talented bloodbender. And, as it turns out, no matter how much fire they may hold within themselves, dragons are not immune to such things. The green dragon- Rhaegal- dips below the waves, and will likely never resurface- well, not whole. One singular wing floats to the top of the quickly-icing waves as a move is made.

Sansa steps onto the water, the full moon bright behind her, as her sister and Brienne and uncle Brynden all do the same.

She is not alone, but she could be, this far from shore- there’s plenty to fear, out here, in the hate-filled eyes of Euron Greyjoy, the ones that look over her so hungrily that she wants to vomit or cut him in two. She can feel the way his bending sinks below her skin, and takes back control of her own body with both hands.

There is only one way to fight a bloodbender, but Euron is talented enough outside of that one trick that it will be a tough fight.

Sansa slides under a spire of ice, flips around, and sends her own discs back in his direction. The fight turns from long-distance to short in the blink of an eye, Euron’s daggers versus Retribution.

Sansa’s eyes slide back to the ships, and back to port, back to White Harbor, so many miles in the distance, a thousand thousand candles lit to guide their way home. A city that will be ransacked should she not make the effort to stop him, should she not be successful. Should she and her sister fall here, Bran and Rickon will take the throne, but they can’t get to White Harbor in time.

Euron moves quick, quicker than a man of his age should, at any rate. But as fast as he is, with this kind of motivation, and with four of them put together… they’re faster. And he can only see out of one eye, besides.

There is something large and terrible beneath the ice, but the moon shines high and full, and the ice is steady beneath her feet.

It runs red, before long. Sansa pants, hair whirling in the wind off the ocean. Something large and terrible dies beneath the ice, and Sansa makes her way across it, tying her hair back with ribbon, and placing her crown atop her head.

In her other, aloft, she holds the head of Euron Greyjoy.

* * *

Margaery can see the exact moment where Daenerys retreats in on herself, the exact moment where Aegon breaks from his councillors and walks to her, walks to the queen who practically vibrates with her anger and grief. They speak to each other quietly. There’s something in their eyes, some sort of silent agreement- over what, she doesn’t know. Shireen Baratheon (or is it Durrandon now? If so, it would fit) stalks past her to join them, and Margaery listens in, as the Targaryens voice their agreement. Margaery finds that she’s not surprised, though it will create a bit of a succession crisis wherever each of them settles.

There will be no more Targaryens, after them, no more to claim the name. The Velaryons protest, when they’re told, but they seem to understand. Shireen makes no such promises, but she does not have to worry about the same kind of future instability that someone like Aerys on Drogon could create. Margaery understands just as much. She can also understand the way that Missandei and Grey Worm swirl around their queen, close and kind.

Margaery turns back to her own, red hair and bronze crown resplendent against the white of the breaking ice. Margaery wonders if she’ll let the bronze green, if she’ll let the iron rust to red and then a stronger black, or if she’ll keep it gleaming.

She strides forwards, and joins her queen at the prow. The other woman’s bright eyes look to the dark of the sky, awash with the color of a midwinter Northern sky. It might be cold, here- too cold for the clothing that Margaery prefers to wear, at least- but she thinks she could get used to it. She tips her head back, and lets the cool night air wash over her face, eyes open, watching the green and violet spin through the air like the colors of a war banner against the sky.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve officially proposed yet,” Sansa says, “I hear you’re officially a widow, now.”

Margaery laughs bitterly.

“I never hated Tommen,” she whispers, “I hated his mother.”   
“Oh, didn’t we both,” Sansa replies, “You know, the night I escaped King’s Landing, she told me a woman’s best weapon is between her legs.”

“Oh, Cersei was a  _ hateful bitch. _ Still is, I bet.”

Margaery’s hand slides to grip Sansa’s, and the young queen turns to her. Margaery notes, almost startled, that Sansa now is not much older than her brother had been, when he’d been crowned King.

And she’s already accomplished so  _ much. _

“I accept,” she says, “I think my father will, too, but he can’t stop me. Now, heart tree or sept?”

Sansa laughs, voice soft.

“Heart tree, I think. Can you  _ imagine _ your father’s shock?”

This time, Margaery laughs too.

* * *

The walls of King’s Landing have always loomed high, but they seem shorter, now. Cersei Lannister stands atop them, devoid of allies. Her daughter, and only claim to the throne, is far to the south, and out of her hands.

There’s been an agreement, amongst them all, that once Cersei is taken care of, Myrcella and Trystane will be given the Westerlands, but for the moment, it seems that Cersei will not budge.

No matter. Shireen is very good at bringing down walls, and this thrice-damned city needs to breathe, anyways. They don’t quite crack under the pressure, not enough, anyways, but everyone moves quick enough that it’s a shattering, not a siege.

She can see Daenerys’s conflicted expression from where she stands, and slides in next to her, voice low and eyes gentle.

“Aegon has a right to it,” the young queen replies, “but-”

“I understand,” Shireen replies. Daenerys shakes her head.

“No, you don’t,” she says, “It was too easy.”

Cersei Lannister’s dead body falls from the tower. Daenerys and Shireen look up. There stands King Aegon, blue eyes burning with anger.

“He called my mother a Dornish whore,” he says, “And my sister? Let’s not go into what she said about my sister.”

Shireen’s heard about the prophecy that Cersei seemed to believe so much, from a very drunk Tyrion Lannister. She’s also heard that King Aegon is a Blackfyre, but she supposes that could be wrong. And either way, it matters more if he  _ believes _ it, just like it matters whether or not the rest believe it, or whether or not Cersei believed the prophecy herself.

Now, it seems, is the time for arguments.

And weddings, too- or at least, it seems like weddings are in order, from the way Arya Stark and Shireen’s cousin circle around one another, or the way Loras Tyrell flirts with his fire-bending savior (the one that also happens to be Sansa’s guard, not Prince Jon Stark- he’s clearly seemed to accept defeat in the latter corner), or the way his sister drapes herself over the Queen in the North.

That, at the very least, is a plan that Shireen can get behind. Davos can clearly get behind it, too, though he seems uncomfortable reviewing marriage prospects with her. Shireen can understand that, at least- she knows she’s like a daughter to him, and the idea that she’s growing up is something he’ll have distaste for (though she’ll not tolerate any ‘when you were little’ stories from him- she’s had quite enough from her mother, who’s proud as anything to have raised such a strong young queen).

“Are you ready to go home, Ser Davos?” she asks, eyes looking south. Davos shrugs his shoulders.

“I haven’t been home in so long, Your Grace. I think I’ve forgotten what missing it was like. This place  _ was _ home once upon a time, though- you must know that much.”

“You don’t have to call me Your Grace, Davos,” Shireen replies, “You’ve known me since before I had the greyscale scars.”

“Aye, I did,” Davos replies, “And you were an adorable baby, may I just say.”

Shireen laughs. This far away from the city, the air almost smells clean. She misses Dragonstone, and hopes Storm’s End will be anything like it at all- at least, she hopes, the air will be clean, and the ocean, too, a reputation for ripping apart ships it might have.

“You know,” Davos hums, “I think Rickon Stark might not be the worst of ideas. And your cousin is marryin’ a Stark daughter- you might as well return the favor.”

Shireen snorts at that, before considering it for a moment. Rickon Stark is nearing fifteen, and she’s not much older, and betrothals can stretch years if need be, especially between royalty. There’s no reason she couldn’t wait half a decade or more, and no reason he couldn’t, either.

“You’re right, Davos,” she says, “it’s a good idea. I might as well speak to his siblings about it, considering they’re here, and all.”

* * *

The idea of Shireen being her sister by law is not a terrible one. She’s close to Rickon’s age, and sharp as a dragonglass blade, too. And she’s a Queen to boot. However, all of Sansa’s siblings are marrying South.

All, it seems, save one.

Bran, it seems, is marrying a Manderly. Wylla, to be exact, while Wynafryd has been quite taken with the youngest of Lady Moran’s brothers, a young man barely older than her daughters, by the name of Ziya.

There are a great number of weddings taking place- and some not-weddings taking place. Apparently, according to the yelling from the Golden Company’s camp, Daenerys Targaryen has decided to start a refuge for the lost and those looking to  _ be _ lost- a secular one, at least- and she’s absolutely refusing to join in the fight over the rest of Westeros.

Sansa visits, once. Daenerys has begun to lay out sketches for a new type of government, one Sansa is entirely unfamiliar with, but likes the look of. She knows that, with the food and winter cattle coming from the Reach, her new priority will have to be mass literacy (and infrastructure, but she’d already been planning on that one), if she wants to try implementing such a plan.

The printing presses in White Harbor, already being sent to keeps all over the North, will assist in that.

Direct elections. Huh. She’ll start it out locally, see how high she can make it go, and she can see, at the very least, that it will be useful.

She weds Margaery Tyrell on the first day of spring after this short, harsh winter, sees the looks of pride on Mace and Olenna Tyrell’s faces as they stare at their daughter under the heart tree, watch with even more as the circlet of bronze and iron is placed around her head, and the new Queen wraps the soft (and warm) grey cloak tighter around her shoulders.

Randyll and Dickon Tarly don’t look particularly amused, at the feast. Sansa decides to change that, chipperly mentioning exactly how much help Samwell had been during the War for the Dawn, the dozens of ways they might have died terribly without his help, and the capable warrior he’d become when allowed to use his earthbending, natural-born healer he may be.

And, last of all, how thrilled she is to have him as her brother by law, while also throwing in her congratulations- Talla Tarly, the oldest Tarly child, is apparently wedding Willas, making her  _ Margaery’s _ sister by law.

“That’s two half-Florent queens, once Willas ascends to the Reach throne, isn’t it?” she asks, tipping a cup in Selyse Baratheon’s direction. The woman smiles brightly- something Sansa didn’t know she could  _ do _ \- and nods.

Shireen is here to finalize her betrothal with Rickon before heading South again, while the rest only seem to be here to congratulate the new pair.

Winterfell is full to bursting. Warm water rushes through the halls, warming the castle. Sansa can feel it, thrumming beneath her fingertips, and smiles, eyes warm, at her new wife, who smiles in return.

“How many queens is it for nine kingdoms, again?” she asks, slightly buzzed. Margaery grins, and counts them out on her fingers.

“You and I are two. Your aunt Lysa is Queen Mother, but we’ll count her. Daenerys is still technically a queen, retired from figurehead politics she may be, but everyone knows she’s calling the shots in the Crownlands. Then there’s my mother, Queen Alerie of the Reach, Queen Myrcella of the Westerlands, Queen Shireen, your aunt by marriage, Queen Roslin of the Riverlands, Queen Asha of the Iron Islands… I think that’s it. Nine queens for nine kingdoms. Prince Doran is still alive, after all, and she’d be a princess, not a queen.”

“Nine queens for nine kingdoms,” Sansa replies, “I think that’s a good number, don’t you?”

They continue the conversation the next morning, watching the sun creep over the horizon and turn the snow yellow and blue with its shadows and lights.

“I simply cannot believe that I’m going to be living here the rest of my life,” Margaery whispers, hand ghosting over the stone on the balcony, where the snow has accumulated in thick clumps. Sansa hums, watching Denna slumber in the corner of their room, thick white fur all in a pile, and wraps her own furs tighter around her shoulders.

“Can’t believe you left the warmth of the South for this cold place?”

“Well,” Margaery replies with a smile, “ _ Inside _ Winterfell, it’s rather warm, don’t you think? And, of course, there’s a beautiful queen here, with just the loveliest red hair- she’s quite good at keeping me warm.”

Sansa laughs.

* * *

Ser Brienne asks Tyrion for Jaime’s hand. When Tyrion mentions that technically, as he’s still a Stark prisoner, she should probably be asking Sansa, the Queen in the North laughs, smiles, and guarantees the request.

She gets a letter from Tarth, not long after. It’s good news. She doesn’t share it, like she’s been asked to, and keeps quiet even when Margaery asks, until Brienne and Jaime make their announcement.

Sansa is glad that the Evenstar will be having grandchildren in short order. She knows a great number of women who’d rather not have children- Rivkah Moran, now one of her ladies, being among them- but in Brienne’s case, from what she’s seen, it’s been more about lack of options, rather than lack of desire.

The agreement still seems to be in place- Myrcella Lannister is a fine Queen of the Rock, and Sansa doubts Brienne wishes to upset that fine balance.

It does remind Sansa of the newest draft of legislation in place, however- egalitarian inheritance for her own children, once she has them.

Once the law is passed, she finds that others begin to follow.

That’s nice, she supposes, though Sansa doesn’t know when she’ll decide start looking for another pair to start trying with, so she doesn’t know for certain whether or not that law needed to be passed at all. It’s still nice to have it waiting in the wings, though.

Sansa holds court more and more often, now. The summer is concerningly short, but the next winter is, too, and she finds her alternate pair, and by the time the next spring rolls around, Sansa’s belly is already beginning to swell.

Margaery is sweet and doting when Sansa’s pregnant, which is her favorite thing about it, honestly. She holds court as often as she can, drafts legislation and further outlines the line of succession, along with writing down her hopes for the future on high-quality parchment, the kind that will keep for years.

* * *

Willas Tyrell, new King of the Reach, receives a raven, early in the morning, with a letter he, his grandmother, and his mother read eagerly.

It’s a girl, it seems- a daughter, a Northern princess like her mother, with Stark eyes already (somehow), and tufts of dark auburn hair already starting to swirl away from her tiny head.

Unsurprisingly, however, the girl already has a name- one that’s grown more and more popular in the Nine Kingdoms when news of her sacrifice began to reach them.

Princess Catelyn Stark is a healthy little girl. Willas is glad. His mother and grandmother and wife are too, it seems- the last mentions teasingly that the Queen in the North  _ is _ her little brother’s sister by law, after all, and that he might very well have helped deliver the little princess.

Willas simply smiles broadly, eyes shining, and shows her the second letter, from Samwell.

* * *

Margaery lets the wind of early winter tease her hair, as she watches her wife and daughter with sharp eyes as the girl is being presented to court. Courtiers coo over the child, who looks more Stark than any of them could have expected. Margaery does suppose Sansa has enough of the Stark look, once one takes her coloring out of the question, that it’s easily passed to her daughter, though the grey eyes had been something of a surprise.

“You’ve already chosen the obvious name for our eldest,” Margaery hums, taking little Cat from Sansa once the queen sits down in their private chambers, and bouncing her on her lap, “And we both know your sister will curse you to the end of the world and back if you name a child Robb or Eddard before she does, unless she’s taken one of them first. So, what’s the-”

“Rickard,” Sansa says, without thinking, “Or Benjen. Uncle Benjen doesn’t have any children in the previous generation named for him, after all.”

Margaery smirks at that. She knows, deep down, though, that there’s more warmth behind it now than there’d been back then.

“It seems so long ago,” Margaery replies, “Could you tell the story to her? She’s never heard it before.”

Sansa laughs, high, clear, and happy. Denna wags her tail from where she sits, so close to them, and sniffs the infant.

“Alright, Cat, listen to me here,” she whispers to the baby on Margaery’s lap, “The story starts in King’s Landing- No, wait, further back, I think. The story  _ really _ starts when King Robert Baratheon arrived in Winterfell, to betroth me to the boy he thought was his son, Prince Joffrey. Now, Mumma wasn’t a Queen yet- she wasn’t even a princess!- and-”

Margaery leans back in the comfortable armchair, and watches as her wife tells a story of monsters and myths and legends, and their daughter giggles in her lap.

They’re happy.

It’s a strange thing to think about, but they’re  _ happy. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the girls are cute! also, i'm tired, and might not be going back to school post-spring break (which is next week, for me), which means... more work time? I'm trying to get ttr rolled through and done as well so i can get to work on other WIPs in that series


	22. epilogue/northron national history day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "the north" is "nori", for some reason (it's because I wanted it to be so, and it makes sense considering "england" is from Angle-land, etc. anyways, sansa i, as told by sansa baker, middle school student and aspiring comedian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM DONE

_ The Life of Sansa I of Nori, and the Expansion of Northron Technology- Northron National History Day presentation, presented by thirteen-year-old Sansa Baker, aspiring comedian _

At least in modern times, Nori, also known as the Biggest Nation in Westeros- yeah, yeah, that’s not anything to clap about, have you  _ seen _ the flight times from Hardhome to Moat Cailin?- is rarely considered anything other than it is- an independent nation. But we had to fight for that, all the way back when we were just called The North and the Wall everyone hears about in history class was still up in  _ any _ capacity, and our winters and summers could last up to six years instead of up to eight months. Yeah, I’m sure you all have an idea of who I’m going to be talking about today- my name is  _ Sansa _ Baker, after all, and Sansa VIII was just crowned in Winterfell, so why not, am I right?

So. Queen Sansa I of Nori, called the North until the reign of Sansa II- she starts out life as Lady Sansa of Winterfell. From all existing accounts we have- which is not much, but we do have a pretty nice amount of letters from Prince Jon ribbing her for childhood antics, so that one’s neat- anyways, Queen Sansa started out as a bit of a brat! So, she’s betrothed to the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, Joffrey Baratheon-

Oh, come on, don’t boo  _ me _ just because I said his name! I know we shake noisemakers every year on the Fall Equinox about him and his granddad, but I’m trying to get through a presentation here!

Alright, turns out Joffrey- I will pause for the booing this time-  _ thank _ you- turns out he’s a bit of a little turd! Not that great of a person! And Her Majesty is stuck in King’s Landing- which, by the way, been there- did you know they have an entire museum dedicated to their sewer system? It is  _ bizarre. _ They practically  _ worship _ their sewer maintenance workers, which- not saying we  _ shouldn’t _ do that, because sewer maintenance is a tough job- but I guess it kind of makes sense, given the city’s most famous for having once been an actual vector of disease? I mean, I guess the cholera outbreak two hundred years ago did  _ something. _ Did you know they lifted the entire city up to add in the new sewer system? Do you know how many miles of pipe they added? Because I can’t remember the exact number, but it was a  _ lot. _

So. We’ve got Queen Sansa, Ser Kieran Snow, our knight in busted-up armor, and Ser Mya Stone, our  _ other _ knight in busted-up armor, all in or soon going to be in King’s Landing, and the first two, with the help of Ser Mya,  _ bust her out of the city by themselves. _ No army, no Blue Spirit- nothing but themselves and a ship.

But you all know this story! We tell this story every Winter Solstice! You know how this goes- Queen Sansa makes it back to White Harbor, chills out in White Harbor for a couple of years, loses her brother, sort of loses her mother, and slowly builds her power-base back up before  _ bam! _ Brother is the Avatar! And  _ bam! _ Have to stop the Night King! And she  _ does it. _ Now, show of hands, how many of you wanted a polar bear dog after hearing that story on the first Winter Solstice you can remember?

Ah, good, a lot of hands just went up. Well, I’m not hear to talk about the beginning of the story, because all that happened before Queen Sansa hit her first quarter-century. Actually, by the time she was twenty-five, Queen Sansa already had an heir- Queen Catelyn I- and a spare- Prince Rickard of Dorne.

No, what I’m here to talk about is what happened  _ after _ the marrying her true lady love and having a brood of adorable children part. By the time she had said children, she’d already passed a lot of important legislation that still protects women and people of all sexual and gender identities today! I’m sure you know that much, too.

I’d like to talk about the printing press. Because we don’t hear all that much about the printing press, despite it and the steam engine being two of the most vital inventions to  _ ever _ come out of Nori. Did you all know the printing press had been in existence for  _ three hundred years _ prior to the independence of Nori? And the steam engine had been in existence in some form for at least a decade prior to Queen Sansa’s reign?

Yeah, the Seven Kingdoms as one unit were not exactly the happiest about technological innovation. Fortunately, the Nine Kingdoms we still have today absolutely are- else I wouldn’t be here in White Harbor today, would I be? I live on  _ Bear Island,  _ for crying out loud. It would have taken me  _ weeks _ to get here! Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, it’s not funny to me.

Queen Sansa I’s sixty-year reign, and the subsequent ten-year reign of Catelyn I and the twenty-five year reign of Lyarra I went from ships no more advanced than a trading galley and weapons no more advanced than a crossbow to _ rifles _ and  _ steam trains _ . Queen Sansa’s hundred year industrialization plan is quite possibly the single most ambitious piece of legislation she ever passed, and it’s almost always glossed over in history courses.

Now, while some of the more ambitious jumps were made in Catelyn I and Lyarra I’s reigns, the entire plan is laid out in Queen Sansa I’s notes, which are on display in the White Harbor History Museum. I got to see them on tour yesterday, and they’re still readable, which is  _ incredible _ , in my opinion- a testimony to how well-preserved the writings of this great woman still are today, because she still has so much to teach us.

Right now, the rest of Westeros is debating on whether or not wind power is sustainable. I think Queen Sansa I would agree with us today that not only is it possible to embrace new technology, but that it’s our duty as people to do so. I know our new Avatar does. Maybe that’s a sign Sansa would agree with Sansa, maybe not, but I think it’s a good one.

Have a great night, everybody!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM DONE WITH THIS!!! YEAH BOI!!!!
> 
> also writing sansa baker? *SO* fun! also, fall equinox booing-at-joffrey is a bit inspired by Purim, which was yesterday for me!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! You might notice that I've changed up this end-of-work note a little bit. Well, I'd just like to say that the fact that y'all are enjoying this fic means a hell of a lot to me, and it's actually influenced the fact that I keep working on this fic at the rate that I am. A lot of my other projects fall and get picked back up really easily- but this one takes longer to leave and stays for longer, too, and the kind comments that people have left and keep leaving both serves to provide the validation I crave and also remind me that hey, this exists, and if you are going to avoid the impending doom that is college applications you might as well be productive!


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